


My Fiend, My Friend

by escspace



Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Ragar AU, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-14 12:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20600447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace
Summary: Ragar Kertia finds himself often in the company of a rather remarkable human, and this friendship leads him far beyond the borders of his home and his stately titles, from place to place and time to time. After he swears his companionship to Frankenstein and Raizel disappears, he wonders just how far he will go.(Chapter 11 is bonus art.)





	1. Chapter 1

When Ragar had told the human that he hoped to see him again soon when leaving him to recover under Sir Raizel’s watch, he had imagined that it would perhaps be months or even a year, if need be. That was considered ‘soon.’ But, the sun had yet risen and set twenty times since that evening, and Ragar once again found himself before the mansion’s door, this time alone. He straightened as though he could present himself any more properly and knocked respectfully. In the middle of the third knock, the door opened.

There Frankenstein stood, suit wrinkle free and hair in pleasant, soft curls framing his face in exactly the right way—prim and proper and well presented. His expression was a blank slate as he stared at Ragar.

“It is a pleasure to see you again. It seems you are recovering well,” Ragar said, serious and polite.

Frankenstein blinked once at him. “...Who are you?”

Ragar’s eyes widened briefly before he composed himself again, softly clearing his throat of imaginary debris and tugging his already in place mask: all futile efforts that accomplished nothing other than making him look foolish and fussy. “My apologies for not introducing myself properly during our first encounter. I am Ragar Kertia, clan leader of the Kertia Clan and wielder of Kartas. We had engaged in battle sixteen days prior.”

“Oh...yes, you,” Frankenstein seemed to recall, and this satisfied Ragar.

Ragar nodded respectfully. “If you have sufficiently recovered, I would like to ask for your favor to do battle with me again.”

Frankenstein perked up and tilted his head slightly, examining Ragar like a strange specimen. “You’re asking for a spar?”

“If that is within your consideration.”

Frankenstein smiled, clearly amused. He blew air out his nose, crossed his arms, and bowed his head so that his hair fell gently forward. “It is, as you say, ‘within my consideration.’” He stepped towards Ragar and shut the door behind him. “Are you ready? Let's go.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, what were you expecting?” Frankenstein motioned with his head in a faraway direction.

Ragar followed.

That was how it started. They would meet again and again, each time closer to the next until, years later, and it was nearly every other day that Ragar found himself asking for Frankenstein’s engaging and helpful company. They had become a common sight together, and one day, Ragar walked into the room in which Sir Raizel was commonly found, and he had not yet even greeted the Noblesse before Raizel simply said, “Frankenstein is in the garden, if you would like to see him.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Sir.” Ragar bowed before him, and Raizel nodded, his lips lifting into a gentle smile.

He regarded Ragar as if he knew something about him—recognized something in him—that not even Ragar was aware of himself. Raizel turned back to the window. “He will be pleased to see you, as you are to see him, Ragar,” he said quietly and completely, utterly certain. Raizel had that quality about him: mysterious and empathetic to a fault. He knew things about them—Ragar and Frankenstein—that neither of them had ever spoken aloud.

Ragar could not help but smile a little as well, expression relaxing. “I am glad to hear that, Sir Raizel.”

Frankenstein was, indeed, in the garden behind the mansion, kneeling in the soil by some leafy plants. “Alstroemeria,” he said as he stood up and clapped the dirt off of his hands. “They’ll bloom in the summer, and the flowers will last a good while in a vase.” He turned to Ragar. “So what is it today? If you’re looking for a fight, I’m still recovering from our last one.”

“I am aware.” Ragar momentarily glanced to the plants and away from Frankenstein’s expectant eyes to make his mild anticipation discreet. “I have come to bother you—”

“As you usually do.”

A crossed look flitted over his eyes, but Ragar continued, “—for an afternoon at a human settlement to your liking.”

For some reason, this surprised Frankenstein, and he let out an almost uncharacteristically genuine “Oh!” before asking, “What’s the occasion?”

“Your company is the occasion.” Ragar shuffled his footing.

“That’s all?” Frankenstein hummed. “I hadn’t taken you for the sentimental type, Ragar.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch. Metal clinked together as he parted the mouth of the bag and counted bronze and gold disks with his thumb. “This should be enough for whatever we might need.”

Ragar looked at them curiously.

“Coins—currency,” Frankenstein explained, pocketing the pouch again.

“Why do you need such a thing?”

Frankenstein looked up and stared, apparently dumbfounded. He slowly opened his mouth to explain, as if the very question infected his own thinking and made it sluggish but then quickly straightened, smiled, and instead said, “I’ll show you once we get there. It’ll be an educational experience.”

“That is indeed my intention.”

The plaza market was pleasantly bustling with people wearing fluttering and colorful robes, some more intricate than others, but all draped purposefully and all sweeping with motion as if in continuous and unchoreographed dance. In their black, fittingly cut fabrics and high collars, Ragar and Frankenstein made a conspicuous pair, but as Frankenstein wandered throughout the streets and stalls, there was recognition and then warm regard in a few who spotted him. Frankenstein had clearly been here before, and people seemed to know that he had what they were looking for.

“Sirs!” someone called out, a woman with a large woven basket held between her hands and her hips. Plentiful bread and fruit was cradled inside, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures and pleasant sweet smells. Her dark hair was short and in gentle waves, and her olive skin glowed warmly in the sun. She trotted up to Frankenstein, glanced at Ragar, then smiled at them both. “You’ve brought a friend today?”

Frankenstein quickly looked over at Ragar. “Yes, a friend,” he agreed.

“Haven’t seen him around before, and I would remember someone who looked...like that,” the woman remarked. She gently twisted her torso to present the basket forth, the green labyrinthine pattern of her robes swishing along with her. “I’m supposed to bring these back to the shop, but to save _ you _ the trouble, you can buy something right here! What do you say?”

Frankenstein held his fingers to his chin and peered over the careful arrangement. He pointed to something dark and purplish and round. “I’ll have two.”

“Excellent! Ten _ nummi _, please.”

There was the rich clink of metal again as Frankenstein pulled out the gold and bronze. He held two gold ones to her. “One for each,” he said.

“Oh! This is far too much just for a little fruit,” the woman chided, but still smiling all the while.

“I have more of this than I know what to do with, I assure you.”

She sighed and gave Frankenstein an exasperated, motherly expression. “As generous as always, I see. Or should I say foolish?” Nonetheless, she accepted the payment, and Frankenstein helped himself to the fruit.

He twisted around. “Ragar, catch.”

The teardrop shaped and slightly fuzzy projectile landed squarely in Ragar’s palm. He stared at it, unsure what to do and outside of his element. Fruit dumbly in hand, Ragar felt singled out among the many eyes of the market.

“It’s a fig. You’re supposed to eat it.”

Ragar nodded but did nothing more.

Frankenstein sighed audibly. “Must I demonstrate that as well?” He brushed his thumb over the skin of the fruit as he held it up to his mouth and took a bite, revealing the soft pink flesh of the fig when he pulled away.

“Sweet, yes?” the woman said.

“Very.”

“I would have to lower my mask to do that,” Ragar informed Frankenstein flatly. “There are many watchers here.”

Once again, Frankenstein paused with a dumbfoundedness. “You’ll have to not mind him,” he said, turning back to the woman. “He’s very...he’s…” Frankenstein huffed, at a loss for words, almost embarrassed _ for _ Ragar.

The woman laughed, her eyes crinkling. “I understand,” she said, out of breath from her laughter. “But I must get going now; my sister will be waiting.” She motioned at Ragar with an upward nod. “I’ll admit, he looks a little scary, but if he is your friend, then he must be a decent guy. Take him around the shop some time if you get the chance to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Frankenstein smiled warmly. They nodded their goodbyes. Then, he turned back to Ragar again. “You really are the most unbelievable person I’ve ever had in my company.”

“I have not once lied to you,” Ragar said, fig still uneaten.

Frankenstein opened his mouth, closed it, then lightly shook his head at the ground and finished the rest of his own fruit. He flicked the remaining stem onto the ground. “Just so you know, and so you don’t get robbed if you ever try to purchase something yourself, it’s bad practice to overpay; only pay as much as you need to.”

Ragar thoughtfully heeded those words and then said, “I think it is you who should not be believed.”

The day stretched on, and among the shops selling food, flowers, textiles, ceramics, jewelry, and any number of other experiences, they found themselves standing before a tall stone structure, much like a bridge with great arches carved into it. “An aqueduct,” Frankenstein labelled. “Used to transport water and a feature Lukedonia sorely lacks.” He put his hands in his pockets. “That island has nothing practical.”

Ragar nodded, aging fig still cradled in hand. “I will inform the Lord of this.”

“You...don’t have to.”

Then, something crashed into Ragar’s legs. Immediately alert, Ragar turned with inhuman speed, grabbed whatever it was that assaulted him, and held it in the air.

“Ragar! Put that poor boy down!”

The boy, teary eyed already, clutched with his small hand at Ragar’s tight fist holding him up by the arm. 

Ragar nervously dropped him with all the grace and gentleness of a stone.

“Why are you—!” Frankenstein shut himself up and swiftly guided the boy’s fall. He knelt down and smiled and gently shushed him before he could begin crying and drawing attention. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, hushed and gentle. “You just startled my friend. I’m sure you were playing a very fun game.” He pointed to a group of staring children a short distance away. “Look, your friends are watching. You can tell them how brave you were; you don’t have to cry.”

The boy glanced up at Ragar, and Ragar looked at him with hard red eyes. His distraught face foretold of tears again.

“Ragar! You’re scaring him.”

Ragar stood statue-still, thinking upon the conundrum. Then, slowly, he bent down and extended his hand and the fig to the boy. He waited, eyes hopeful.

Tentatively, the boy looked between Ragar and the fig and then curled his delicate fingers around the fruit offering. Slowly, he smiled again.

Inwardly, Ragar sighed with relief, but he only gave the child a serious nod as if they had just made an illicit deal. Nonetheless, the silent exchange somehow returned the boy to a cheery mood, and he ran off after a returning nod of thanks. Ragar stood up again and watched the boy show off the fruit to his playmates before devouring it whole.

“Huh.” Frankenstein crossed his arms and gave Ragar a look. “Good job.”

He tugged at his mask. “To you, as well.” Ragar looked up at the sun setting behind the tall arches of the aqueduct. “This has been...educational.”

* * *

“You should be driving him from this place, not associating with him or sticking up for him!” Urokai yelled in a fit of childish frustration. “You’re always with him nowadays! Has it made you fond of him or something?”

At that time, in front Frankenstein, Ragar hadn’t really known how to answer. He only knew that he wanted to stand by his side and that he quickly tired of unruly and blind antagonism. “Urokai, it is unlike you to be so agitated,” he said simply and coldly.

* * *

Ragar found him by the flowers now in bloom in splashes of yellow, orange, and red and spotted with deep color. “Alstroemeria,” he recalled from several months prior.

Frankenstein looked at him, eyes slightly wide in gentle surprise and then softening into something else entirely more approving. “So you remember. I’m impressed.”

Ragar nodded.

“I take it we’re sparring today?”

Again, Ragar nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

* * *

Blood and wind were roaring in his ears, his lungs, his veins. Spears upon spears sliced his skin, and in return, his daggers cut just as deeply. He made himself quiet and invisible, remembering well Frankenstein’s advice. He wove in between lightning and fire.

The earth sparked and decayed under Frankenstein’s foot, violet lighting up the air and radiating oppressively. The spear cut wide arcs, seemingly carving space itself and spilling blood just as widely when it made contact.

The blood, the speed, the danger, it thrilled both of them in a way, and when Ragar narrowly avoided another attack and managed to land one of his own, it only fuelled him further to move faster, cut deeper—_ hunt _.

Frankenstein matched him just as well. While Ragar made himself silent, small, undetectable, Frankenstein’s powers grew and grew. He was more violent, more sweeping, more reckless, more pained, but it was a sweet kind of pain. It clawed up his arms, over his chest, his body, his neck, his face, his mind. It simultaneously heightened his senses and made pain _ sing. _

They were breaking earth, carving air, and pushing and pushing each other, and there was something ecstatic in the atmosphere between them. It was all so..._ good. _

Then, Ragar realized, it had fallen silent. Frankenstein, who usually, when Dark Spear increasingly covered him, roared and attacked so violently and recklessly that anything that was within a radius crumbled around him, was deathly still and deathly quiet.

Ragar, whizzing high in the air and undetectable, adjusted his grip on Kartas and swiftly brought his blades down on him.

And he was caught, stopped on a pin and frozen in space. Frankenstein had his claws on his throat, crushing it. He was grinning ear to ear and was _ so very happy _. His eyes were radiating purple, and he looked beyond thrilled and beyond lost.

“Frankenstein!” Ragar struggled to say, and there was a cresting wave of dread. Something had clearly gone wrong.

Frankenstein only crushed his throat tighter and grinned wider. _ “Oh…” _ An expression came over Frankenstein’s face, one of tragic happiness, as if he had never once in his life experienced such joy, and the source of that joy was Ragar.

Ragar knew of Dark Spear and was, at this point, familiar with their temperament through his battles with Frankenstein. He knew they grieved and hated and hurt. He knew they seethed with rage at their own creation. He knew they were destructive and terrible. He had never known them like this before—absolutely elated, swooning with it perversely.

_ “Let me tell you a secret…” _ Frankenstein rasped gently, though the powers permeating him threatened to destroy everything around them. His dark claws burned, but not with heat. It was cold, so completely cold, like the night sky in between the moon and the stars. It chilled deep under the skin, Dark Spear’s flames absorbing all heat and light, like it was a chasm from which nothing could escape, and right now, Ragar was within the horizon of that chasm. Frankenstein leaned forward and whispered something intimately, irredeemably so, and soothingly, like someone comforting a dying man.

Raizel knew things about them—Ragar and Frankenstein—that neither of them had ever spoken aloud. But now, one of them had said it:

“_ I love you.” _

“Frankenstein!” Ragar struggled and sliced himself free and blood sprayed wonderfully and grotesquely into the air. It splattered onto the ground around them.

Frankenstein stumbled, the blue finally returning to his eyes as he fell back. Dark Spear quickly receded, and he was on the ground, stunned and staring at Ragar, who himself was just as stunned, chest heaving for air. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Frankenstein winced and looked down at his arms, practically sliced to ribbons and hands no better. Even just the simple movement of his fingers sent searing pain up his arms. Blood, warm and bright, continuously poured from a gash that went all the way through his forearm from where Ragar had driven Kartas deep into him, tearing through muscle, tendon, and bone.

Ragar huffed, straightened, and dismissed Kartas. He quietly shuffled over and lowered himself to take a seat next to Frankenstein, neatly crossing his legs.

They were silent together for a long while. The more minor wounds had started stitching themselves up.

“I…” Frankenstein began. “Sorry about that.” He sighed. “I thought I was fine; I _ felt _ fine.”

Ragar shook his head. “Your weapon is unpredictable.” He looked at him. “How...aware were you—how much of that do you remember?”

Frankenstein looked distantly ahead, thinking. “I remember..._ feeling _ . It was...It was _ great _. Like a high.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

Frankenstein tilted his head. He turned to Ragar curiously. “No, what did I say?”

Ragar watched him for a short beat. He gently shook his head and looked forward. “It was nothing,” he said quietly and tugged at his mask. “Nothing with sense.”

“Oh…” Frankenstein lowered his head, pulling his most injured arm towards himself. “Hah...I suppose I won’t be using this one for a bit.”

Ragar stood up, quickly turned on his heel to face Frankenstein, and extended a hand.

Frankenstein looked at it and grasped it, pulling himself up with his relatively less destroyed right arm and a grunt. “Thank you.” Blood continued dripping onto the dirt.

Ragar nodded. “I think you are right,” he admitted. “That I am the most unbelievable person you’ve had in your company.”

“What? What are you…”

Ragar shook his head. “It is nothing. Let us go home.” He stepped a little closer to Frankenstein. “You may lean on me, if you find that helpful.”

Frankenstein huffed appreciatively, smiling. He braced a hand on the offered shoulder. “Thank you, Ragar.”

* * *

That Frankenstein and Raizel had bonded was news that spread quickly and was amicably received by the Lord himself (at the same time as he was receiving updates about the new aqueduct construction) who seemed to treat it as another piece falling neatly into place in one of his mysterious, Lordly puzzles.

Ragar witnessed the change in Frankenstein’s behavior himself. Frankenstein bowed deeply and gracefully, accepting and addressing Raizel with all of his honor. _ ‘Master,’ _ he called him, and it was such a bizarre word on Frankenstein’s sharp tongue, but he said it with such ease and care that it sounded like he had been saying it his entire life, and that this was the only correct and just way to refer to Sir Raizel. Frankenstein gazed at Raizel like he was the miracle of the sun rising every morning and the blessing of it setting every evening. Raizel had, seemingly overnight and over a drop of blood, become Frankenstein’s world.

It made Frankenstein happy, and that, in turn, made Ragar happy, even if he could tell when Frankenstein clearly would rather stay by Raizel’s side than engage in frivolous battles or pastimes with him. As a result of this, Ragar found himself more often in the Noblesse’s residence than before. Raizel always gracefully received him; he did not mind the intrusion or even consider it as such, much to Ragar’s relief. So then, by a predictable extension, Raizel became a friend.

Ragar would catch it sometimes, how Raizel would look at him with such generous approval, Ragar wondered what in the world he could have possibly done to deserve it. And when Ragar would catch those eyes with his own, noble to noble, he was struck with a sense of camaraderie, a mutual sympathy, and the sense that Raizel understood something, and Ragar wondered what it was.

“Frankenstein has told me that you have helped him gain great control of Dark Spear and sharpen his skills in combat,” Raizel said to him one day, sitting with his long, elegant legs crossed on the couch and sipping freshly brewed and gentle smelling tea. Warm flowers had been placed in a vase in the center of the table.

Ragar remained respectfully standing until Raizel bid him to have a seat.

“Frankenstein has prepared enough tea for both of us. He has become rather expectant of you.”

“He has?” Ragar looked forward towards Raizel, only managing to contain his pleasant eagerness. “But...he has you, Sir Raizel, does he not?”

Raizel nodded and smiled gently, and there was that look again, that regard that was filled with a quiet and exuberant understanding. “I am only myself, Ragar. I am not you. That he has me does not exclude you from his side.” He looked fondly and wisely down at his tea. “I have a burdensome request to make of you, Ragar.”

“As you command, Sir Raizel.”

Raizel shook his head. “It is not a command. It must be, absolutely, of your own will.” He looked at Ragar, eyes with diamond clarity. “If I were to come by unfortunate circumstance, will you remain in Frankenstein’s company?”

Ragar parted his lips. Each breath in the silence between them suddenly felt unbearably significant. It was a gentle and grand request, and Ragar felt the full warm weight of Sir Raizel’s uncountably high regard. It was then that he finally realized what Raizel knew and understood about him, because Raizel himself felt just the same way as Ragar did.

Ragar bowed his head, taking an oath. “Yes, my liege,” he said.

That ‘unfortunate circumstance’ would arrive before they knew it.

* * *

“As of this day,” the Lord’s voice echoed in the vast hall, commanding the sharp attention of the clan leaders. “The Kertia Clan is disbanded, and Ragar Kertia is honorably relieved of his duties as clan leader.” He stood up from his great, grand throne, and like a friend, he extended his hand, palm up. “Please, relinquish your soul weapon.”

“Ragar, I suggest you reconsider your actions,” Gejutel said tense and terse, his gruff voice being the only one with the audacity to do so, and it seemed, in that moment, that nothing outside of that vast room existed.

Ragar only looked forward, steadfast, saying nothing. He gazed up at the Lord, his wisdom, and all the home and the past that he represented, and he did not bow. There was no longer a need to, as he had stepped outside of Lukedonia’s jurisdiction, raising his hand and the dark, gleaming daggers Kartas into the air. The soul weapon, the weight of his ancestors and his esteemed position, laid bare and given up.

The Lord received them. “So you’ve made your decision.” His jovial smile was one of gentle mysteries that Ragar, at the moment, could not uncover; he could only be grateful that the Lord accepted his decision with more ease than he himself had when making it. The weapon vanished in the Lord’s presence, stored somewhere in his soul, somewhere in the aether.

Ragar nodded at him, and he nodded back, long, long hair swaying perfectly with the movement that was only appropriate for the Lord. Unceremoniously and perhaps a little awkwardly but still vastly prideful, Ragar turned around, his back to the rest of Lukedonia, and walked towards the looming, ceiling-high doors.

“Ragar,” the Lord called as he stepped into the space in between the doors. “Have a safe trip.” He smiled honestly.

“Thank you, my—Thank you, Sir.” Ragar nodded once, and then silently, carefully disappeared, as if he had never existed at all.

Ragar knew, because he had a way of knowing things and knowing things about that human especially, that Frankenstein would leave that night and would cross that forest, and Ragar, emerging from the trees, would wait for him. He leaned against the rough bark, arms crossed, watching Frankenstein’s back framed by moon and darkness.

“So you are going,” Ragar said.

“I can’t stay here any longer. I need to find Master.”

“You are not the only one looking. They have done all they can—”

Frankenstein turned his head, eyes wide and wild and accusing. “All they can?” he seethed. “It was not by chance that at the time of Master’s disappearance there was an unbearable explosion, and you lot say you cannot find a trace.” Frankenstein sharply turned away. “It is...impossible to trust any one of you here.”

“Frankenstein,” Ragar said, firm. “I am not—I am no longer ‘any one of them.’” He pushed himself off of the tree and stepped forward, cold leaves cracking under his normally silent step. “I am no longer Ragar Kertia, Clan Leader of the Kertia Clan—the clan is no more. I am only Ragar Kertia.”

Frankenstein stilled and then turned around, looking at him as if he were the strangest, most unbelievable creature he had ever seen under the shadow of the forest, and perhaps he was. “So your soul weapon—Why would you…”

“I said that ‘they’ have done all they can; I was not referring to myself. I can do more.” Ragar pulled down his mask. He looked at him with all the hopeful, foolish friendliness he had ever known and smiled with it as well. “I am going with you.”

There was a pause, and calmly, Frankenstein said, “What makes you think I’ll let you?”

And calmly, Ragar said, “What makes you think you won’t?”

Frankenstein blinked, seemingly and suddenly struck dumb by Ragar’s blatant confidence: a confidence in Frankenstein’s absurd friendship that Frankenstein knew, and Ragar knew he knew, that only Ragar had. Then, the corners of his lips turned up, and he smiled, conceding and just as absurd. He faced away from Lukedonia, looking towards the sea and sky and in the distance, the future. “Try not to slow me down,” he said and leapt.

Ragar bounded after him, not missing a step. “Have you forgotten who you are talking to?” he said, voice low, in the brief moment they were side by side, and then, in a blink, he rocketed ahead, leaving only the memory of a breeze in Frankenstein’s face.

Frankenstein, not one to back down from a challenge, was beside him again in the next moment, electricity crackling in his veins and in the searing air behind them. “No, I remember very well. Ragar Kertia, the clan-less, weapon-less fool who dropped everything and left his home to follow another fool into the ocean.”

Ragar tugged his mask back over his face. “We will see who follows whom, Frankenstein.” He looked ahead.

They raced into the far reaches of the young night.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Italy, 17th century. _

“There are still two facilities in the area. We’ll each take one to speed things along. Get in, get out, try not to make a fuss.” Ragar watched carefully as Frankenstein glided his fingers over the map. “This one” — he tapped at a circle on the western coast — “is larger and more heavily guarded.”

“I will take this one,” they said to each other.

Frankenstein blinked. “Ragar, you haven’t a soul weapon.”

“I will not be needing it. My abilities are weighted towards speed and discreetness. This” — Ragar also tapped near the mark — “is ideal for me and will keep you from unnecessarily using your powers. Should anything go wrong, however,” — he dragged his finger to another circle further down the coast and near a river — “we are close enough to each other to provide assistance.”

Frankenstein looked seriously down at the map. “...Fine.” He reached over and grabbed a quill sitting in an open bottle of ink and drew a clean X at a midpoint between the two facilities. “There’s a cathedral here. We’ll meet each other there at 12:55. If I do not see you within five minutes, I will head in your direction.”

“And I to you, similarly.”

* * *

The burnt orange tiles of rooftops and flickering lamps in the darkness of the late night quickly receded behind Ragar as wind filled his lungs, his feet light and his hair whipping sharply with every turn. His dark form was a mere shadow, an apparition, a whispered legend in the alleys and on the rooftops of the city. Perhaps a drunken fellow would look up and see a black shape flutter across the stars. _ A bat _, he would think, or even perhaps just a figment of his imagination.

On the outskirts of the city was a cluster of buildings just like any other arranged around a small circular plaza: walls of stucco and stone, perhaps some detailing and columns here and there framing the windows, roofs tiled, plain, and subdued. The buildings looked, for the most part, entirely unremarkable: just another street, another neighborhood, in another city.

Ragar swept around the perimeter, and the lights of the windows and cracks in the facades of the architecture gleamed brightly to him, like a full toothed smile that promised secrets if he would come closer. He made himself smaller, quieter, faster and slipped in.

Ragar had quickly learned through the years that it was much more efficient to start with a map and a plan, and bases as big as these with multiple underground levels usually had maps. The inside was a different place and different time. Candle flame was replaced with the multicolored glow of things engineered and concocted that Ragar did not understand. The lines of stone and brick were replaced with machined maze-like pipes going to and from places and transporting things Ragar did not know. He did not need to understand; he did not need to know. He was here for one thing, and one thing only: Sir Raizel—whatever he could find about him.

Ragar stood in the dark looking at the map plastered in the corner of the cluttered room filled with books, records, small box-like machines, and various bottles labelled various things scattered around tables that were too big for the amount of space available. There were four underground levels and four above ground ones. He would start from the bottom, the largest level and likely the level of the most importance, with eight labs in the East wing and ten in the West and miscellaneous offices and storage in between.

There were fewer people in the halls at this hour, but Ragar could hear in the distance the sound of shouting and bone breaking, agent against agent. Violence was no stranger to these parts, and Ragar only tugged at his mask and kept forward, avoiding detection with sheer speed. He came upon a room, a lab, bathed in red light that seemed to sear his very skin. At the center, glowing and burning with powers that felt sickeningly familiar, was a crystalline form held in a glass case: a blood stone. Ragar had encountered them before in missions with Frakenstein, but not any of this mass. They reminded him of Dark Spear in function, but not in nature. Blood stones burned with heat. In exchange for power, they consumed life force but the soul, the soul was scorched until it was nothing. They were a tool and weapon only; they had no consciousness.

Even being in such proximity to this one had Ragar feeling ill, like a bad omen. He quickly rummaged through the drawers, divesting them of their documents. The stone glowed over his shoulder, watching, waiting, and Ragar stared back. They would have to come back for it another time. He left the lab and continued on. 

He was not sure when or where he had been spotted, but by the time he got to the ground floor, someone greeted him, as if they had been waiting for a very old, long lost friend.

“Ragar Kertia,” the old voice acknowledged with a warmth that was only performative. “Or is it only Ragar now?”

Ragar turned around. “Lagus.”

“So you are alive.” Lagus bowed his head in a low, wisened chuckle. “When you had relinquished your soul weapon, I thought you were a madman, but it appears as though you are doing well for yourself.” He looked up with eyes that were sunken deep into the aged wrinkles of his face but still gleamed with timeless power. “Then, I imagine, that he—Frankenstein—is alive as well?”

Ragar remained silent. He could feel himself tense, stepping his foot back and bracing for violence.

Lagus hummed thoughtfully. “I must congratulate you, for making it this long. You see, you and I are very much similar. We have both turned our backs on Lukedonia, unsatisfied with the status quo. The difference between us” — slowly, a red mist billowed from the very walls, from Lagus himself, and he extended a hand — “is that today, you will die and I will live.”

Too late for subtlety, Ragar’s power crashed into the walls, and he sprinted away, because, Ragar had also learned, choosing the right fights was just as important as fighting itself, and a battle with Lagus was a poor one in his current condition, weapon-less and alone. Hoping to lose him, Ragar took a convoluted route, leaping into the sea and across the waters to an island dense with forest just off the coast.

But he felt slow and stupid, chest and limbs aching deep into his bones as the poison from the mist settled under his skin, even from just that brief exposure. A thin trail of blood from his nose sank into his mask. He huffed, trying to regain himself and his clarity of mind.

Glancing back, Lagus was on his heel as he darted into the trees, and Ragar, with mounting dread, realized the extent of the poison if he could not lose him. Lagus was not fast; he hardly even moved in battle, and so he had to root his opponents to the spot as well. It only made sense, but Ragar wished that it didn’t.

He spun in the air, aiming a crescendoing slash backwards towards Lagus, deeply scarring the trees and felling their limbs and leaves. It did little to deter his pursuer.

“You have foolishly put yourself at a severe disadvantage, Ragar, for something as vacuous as ‘honor.’” The bronze and black form of Dolor materialized in Lagus’ hand. “Had you kept your soul weapon, perhaps you would stand a chance.”

Ragar stopped in his tracks at a clearing, once again confronted by the roaring, unsympathetic sea. Spinning around, he resigned himself to anticipate battle and said nothing, only hoping Frankenstein was well and would be on his way sooner rather than later.

Ragar bladed his hands with his red noble flame. He attacked, slicing with precision only to be deflected by a barrier of roots summoned just as quickly, and upon recoil, he reoriented himself in the air, driving an attack downwards from above. The ground broke under them, tearing up dirt and rocks like broken flesh and bone, but Lagus had moved, and in the air, was red mist again. Ragar clenched his jaw and could guess that he was even slower now from the rising ache of toxicity. He could feel the blood rising in his throat, and he coughed once, smearing his dark mask with dark blood, grossly dampening his mouth and chin. There was a word for this type of situation, and Ragar remembered learning it a century or so ago…

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Pivoting, Ragar cut again towards Lagus’s direction and landed a minor wound. Not a moment to lose, he leapt, hoping to still be able to hide himself with speed. He was only a blur to Lagus, but still a blur, and upon his next somewhat successful slice, he was grounded, red root burrowed through his lower leg, his blood sinking into the ground. He blinked at the spiked pain too slowly and was struck at his side a moment later. Ragar gave himself no time to take his new wounds into account before he forcefully twisted himself free, tearing the root out of his leg through muscle and skin, carving out a long exposed chunk of gore from his ankle to his calf. Still, as light as the flutter of his long, outer coat and blood flecking off of him from the motion, he stepped silently behind Lagus and spun with centripetal force to paint the white back of the Union robe bright red with Lagus’s own blood in return.

The old man stumbled slightly forward, surprised even, but there were tendrils spiralling upward from the ground at Ragar’s feet, a tower of them, a spire, that stretched higher and higher until Ragar could leap no further and then crashed into him, crushing him in the air and knocking the wind out of him. When Ragar landed on the ground again, his most injured leg threatened to give out on him and briefly, the ankle rolled to the side, unbalancing him as his blood spilled. When he looked up again, Lagus was radiating, numerous roots like rays of a red sun, dwarfing Ragar with their magnitude. Lagus beat his staff on the ground, and serpent-like, those roots rushed towards Ragar like an ocean wave, tall, unstoppable, and suffocating with force. Ragar dashed out of the way, but there were more and more, from any direction, and with the poison in the air and in his lungs and eyes and face and skin, he could only run so fast and so far and manage so many cuts and strikes before he buckled over in a moment of hazy weakness to spit blood, and in that split second moment, he was struck.

Lagus, guarded by his throne of roots whipping blood into the sky was as large as the nature he took after. “You are naive, Ragar, but even with nothing, you remain impressive to still be alive.”

Ragar, fingers trembling with weakness and struggling to keep upright on his torn and destroyed legs, tendon, joints, and all exposed to the poisoned air, only pulled up his mask, now utterly damp with a graphic mix of blood, spit, and perspiration, not wanting to waste what breath he had left. He sighed and summoned to the best of his ability his quiet, red will, sharpening the air around his hands and making his presence fleeting.

He glanced to the ocean. He was too weak and slow to escape. He glanced to the stars. He wondered what time it was.

* * *

Frankenstein walked carefully around the foot of the decorated cathedral. He looked up at its towers pointing needles into the sky as if accusing god itself. It was amazing, Frankenstein thought, what people would do for things that didn’t exist—for things that comforted them. Quiet and alone, he could only hear his own steps on the stone pathing.

Then, there was the deep resounding call of the bell marking the first hour of the early morning. It was time for him to go.

* * *

Humans had a fascinating practice: prayer. Ragar did not believe in a sentient almighty, but he understood the appeal. It was nice, to pray for power, for forgiveness, for happiness, for all to be well, and momentarily feel as if those things were just on the horizon, feel as though there was someone above all who cared enough to listen and give, even in the face of the impossible, and so one would never be alone. God, Ragar realized, was a friend above all friends, and Ragar found himself wanting to pray.

Pray for power, pray for saving, for mercy, but the warm blood pouring from his mouth, arms, legs, chest, torso reminded him too clearly that he had only himself, only his body, and only his will. He was beyond the point of pain, and a numbness had started settling over him. Ragar couldn’t tell if that was just his own body coping or if it was the poison stealing his senses and his mind, but he gritted his teeth tighter and tried his very best to run faster and hit harder.

Lagus’s roots towered higher, drilled into his flesh deeper, and were impenetrable to his bare hands.

Then, Ragar felt what it was like to pray to god when his aura-scorched hands met and dived into flesh. He reached as deeply and as painfully as he could into Lagus’s abdomen and when he withdrew his hand, he grasped at whatever he could and ripped it out of him, sending dripping red matter arching to the ground. But he was too slow and there was none to answer his prayers, because in the next moment, there was an obscene snap, and Ragar was flying backwards. He hit the ground on his back, unable to catch himself with his legs as when he opened his eyes and his blurred vision focused enough for him to realize what had happened, he saw his leg bent in wrong and grotesque ways, so much so that his skin broke, punctured by his own bone.

Staring up at Lagus, with tendrils like the sun itself, Ragar wondered if he would die today after all. They said that you met god when you died, and Ragar wondered if he could see for himself that there was no one waiting for him, not his dissolved clan, not the souls of his forebears. He trembled when he tried to straighten himself, and there was no salvaging his leg at this point. He could hardly see, could hardly breathe, and he doubled over, spewing blood and whatever else broken and jumbled in his body through his stubborn mask, some finding escape through his nose. His arms could barely support him.

The air was poisoned but then there was suddenly something even deadlier, something that was not a means to death like poison, but death itself. Ragar tilted his head back, and he saw, in his tired swimming vision, the cold, burning sparks of black and purple. He breathed out and flopped back, lying motionless on the ground and watching the shapes flicker and fly violently, abstractly, and beautifully.

“Let’s count, how many of you I’ve collected so far…” Frankenstein said as he descended onto the land, Dark Spear’s electricity spreading out like holy wings. He held up his fingers as he listed, “Roctis Kravei, Ignes Kravei, Zarga Siriana, the rhino, the insect, and now…” He pointed Dark Spear’s sharp and weightless needle forward. “You.”

“You think you can compare me to the rest of them?” Lagus flared his roots. “I am nothing like those you listed.”

“Hm,” Frankenstein considered jovially. “You’re right.” He leapt into the sky. “You’re far uglier.” He slammed the force of all the sins and the sinners down upon Lagus’s shielding roots.

It was a storm, relentless, vast, expansive and expanding. When rain wanted to fall, it fell and covered anything and everything exposed. Spears sailed through the air, rocketing like meteors roaring through the atmosphere. They shattered again and again onto the roots, never letting up until those tendrils could bear no more, and Lagus was forced to move.

Frankenstein was fanged, and his eyes took on the glaze of violence, glowing violet and trembling with barely contained thrill. Perhaps Lagus’s poison did affect his body, but Dark Spear could not give a damn, because as Frankenstein’s physical body broke down, they rushed and swelled forward, wanting and clawing and hungering to escape that physical barrier that only held them back and held them back just barely. Frankenstein was on a timer, increasingly so, because the more souls he consumed, the more powerful he became and the more they hungered. His laugh was one of multiple voices, like a demon, like a god; there was no difference.

Dark Spear quickly blazed up his arms, his body, and it reached towards his face like an infection. Frankenstein wove through the roots flying towards him, and those he could not avoid, he parted like the sea with his spear, and he drove it into the heart of it all, at Lagus.

Blood sprayed forth like arousal.

Frankenstein’s chest rose and fell with the effort of something perverse. His grin was wide and unhinged. He held his clawed hand up, and from it, a wide darkness washed over the land: a beam like a chasm being torn in the very air.

Perhaps Lagus was as large as nature, but Frankenstein was as large as space.

Frankenstein paused at a flicker of red.

In Lagus’s hand was a blood stone. “You certainly are impressive for a human to make me use this,” he said ominously, and plunged the stone into his chest. Power, glowing green, erupted from him, and Lagus grew and grew, morphing into a beast.

In the distance, the stone in the glass case pulsed and glowed, and in an instant, the entire underground floor of that lab was lifeless.

Perhaps had Frankenstein had more presence of mind, he would have been worried or even horrified, but here, now, he only seemed more joyful. Violence was absolutely, utterly delightful.

The tendrils, growing and growing, innumerably, seemed to create a forest in themselves that pierced the very heavens and then came crashing down on Frankenstein like judgement. But Frankenstein blossomed and swelled, and Dark Spear tangled in between those tendrils as if in intimate handshake, and those roots darkened. Dark Spear was rot; it raced along the roots to their source, seeking out their master to swallow him whole, soul and all.

Ragar, barely awake and barely aware, felt that clash of power press down on him, crushing him, and he struggled to back away.

Frankenstein was barely there, barely human, barely physical. He roared with the voice of a monster and swung the spear, cutting down the forest of tendrils.

Lagus staggered back, eyes widening. “How could—! You’re not supposed to be this powerful!”

_ “Oh, Lagus Tradio, you small man with a small existence. Your blood stone is so...very...wasteful.” _ They laughed loud and piercing. _ “It’s disgusting!” _ Frankenstein’s form dove towards Lagus. _ “Consuming life force, but no soul, how could you ever hope to be more than a single man?” _ Dark Spear crushed the air with darkness fringed with the light it constantly swallowed and brought the storm down upon Lagus. _ “Understand, you are a second rate product.” _

Lagus blocked but took the brunt of the caustic force, the edges of his roots necrotic—gangrenous—decaying.

They were in the air, Frankenstein’s body seemingly flickering in between spaces, unreal, and lifted by a manic, cursed power. _ “But there is salvation, Lagus Tradio, and we are that salvation.” _They flew towards him.

Frankenstein was behind him, and Lagus barely began to turn around before he was pierced into the air like a martyr in a holy crusade with stakes summoned beneath him. They burrowed into his very soul. With all of his will, Lagus’s tendrils crested high to catch Frankenstein darting into the air. They wrapped around the dark form, and for an instance, they had caught each other.

The roots covered and crushed Frankenstein, piercing through his body and snapping bone. Blood seeped in between them.

But then, there was a dark clawed hand, parting the tight roots and reaching towards Lagus. Slowly, those roots darkened wherever that blood touched. Frankenstein’s face, but it wasn’t really Frankenstein, emerged from the parting of roots and looked at Lagus with crazed promise—all invocations of the devil in those glowing eyes. They pried themselves from the roots and leaned closer and closer. _ “Lagus Tradio, if it is power you seek, let us...consummate.” _

Dark Spear ripped open his physical body, impaling him straight through and drinking up his blood, his life, his soul. A terrible cold vortex spiralled upward, and it took him. The roots disappeared, and the mist cleared.

Frankenstein landed on the ground, breathing and trembling with power. He felt a great rush, an arousal, a thirst both quenched and renewed. His smile still fanged and eyes still violet, he turned around, and there Ragar was, lying on the ground motionless but still alive. Silently, Frankenstein stepped over to him.

Ragar’s drooping, half opened eyes watched him. Looking up, powerless, he was searching for his friend, but what stared back at him was something else.

Frankenstein leaned down and hands still clawed, picked Ragar up easily by his throat. He held him, silently.

They stared at each other.

Weakly, Ragar brought his shaking hand up to rest on Frankenstein’s wrist. “Frankenstein…” he rasped, he prayed. “Please.” What was in Ragar’s eyes was fear.

Frankenstein was looking back, unseeing. Until finally, he woke with a gasp, eyes and skin returning to him as he crumbled to the ground. “A—ah…” He braced himself with his hands in the dirt, shaking as he spat blood and grimacing with realized pain. He breathed out and looked up to see Ragar lying in his own blood.

“Welcome back,” Ragar said quietly, closing his eyes.

“Ragar…” Frankenstein’s eyes roamed over his body, taking stock of what was crushed and broken. He shifted over closer. As gently as he could, he lifted Ragar to sit and lean on him. “Are you able wrap your arms around my shoulders?”

Silently, Ragar did so.

“Good.” Frankenstein sighed and adjusted their bodies to heave Ragar up onto his back, taking extra care to not do any more damage to his mangled leg. “Good…” he said softly again. “Let’s go home.” With a grunt, he stood up, fully carrying Ragar. “You did well...you did well…” he comforted with unusual tenderness.

It was very strange to Ragar, who expected something along the lines of ‘I told you I should have been the one to take this facility,’ or ‘Look at what a mess you’ve made. Who do you think has to fix you up?’ But he only silently leaned into Frankenstein’s hair, too out of it to retort the sudden show of kindness.

“Thank you,” Frankenstein said. “Thank you, Ragar.”

Ragar wanted to ask for what, but he only sighed into Frankenstein’s hair and drifted off to unconsciousness on the warmth of his back.


	3. Chapter 3

“Lagus destroyed you. You’re not going to be using that leg for some time. His poison’s affecting your regeneration.”

Ragar, shirtless and therefore maskless, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked down at all his bandages and splints. He could barely flex his fingers and toes and felt a mild disappointment at such. “And you?” he asked.

“What about me?” Frankenstein asked cluelessly.

“I was not the only who did battle with Lagus.”

“Oh, I’m...I’m fine.”

Ragar found Frankenstein unbelievable. He looked at him, both concerned and incredulous. “How conscious are you, when it happens?”

“More so than before. You don’t have to worry about me. Worry about getting better.”

Terse disapproval flickered over Ragar’s naked face, and habitually, he reached up to tug at a mask that should have been there but only ended up poking his own face. Slightly embarrassed, he conceded and sat back onto the pillows. Weaseling an answer out of Frankenstein when he did not want to answer was a futile task.

Frankenstein nodded. “I’ll be back to check on you later. Try not to die,” he said and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

“Brunch. Eat.” Unceremoniously, Frankenstein placed a silver tray on Ragar’s lap. On it was a bowl of pale porridge with cuts of meat and a spoon placed precisely next to it. “I’ve washed your mask-top, and it’s hanging in the sun to dry. You can get it back after you’ve eaten.”

Ragar gave him a measured look but gracefully obeyed. “Thank you,” he said as he dipped his spoon into the bowl.

* * *

Still weakened and affected by poison, Ragar at night, lying in bed found himself wheezing, taking in thin lungfuls of air through a throat that felt too narrow. Sitting up only made his wounds hurt and it showed on his face even with the mask. He coughed and cleared his throat, tasting blood at the back of it.

Loudly and suddenly, the door opened, and Frankenstein’s shape filled the doorway. He walked inside and looked down at Ragar with a hard, judging gaze. Then, wordlessly, he climbed into the bed and simply lied down by Ragar’s side. They stayed together for the rest of the night.

* * *

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By the third day, Frankenstein relented and let Ragar leave their humble home to walk around outside with the aid of wooden crutches Ragar thought were superfluous.

A rude child ran up and kicked one of the crutches out of Ragar’s hand, but before Ragar could even pick it back up, Frankenstein had chased the child down and scolded him firmly. Then, he brought the child back before Ragar, and nervously and shamefully, the boy apologized. Frankenstein nodded, satisfied, and the boy hurried away.

Ragar watched Frankenstein smile with an almost motherly exasperation at the running boy. “You do well with children,” he said as they continued to walk. A horse drawn carriage passed them by, carrying people and artistic wares, its tired wheels bumpily rolling over the ground.

“Do I?”

Ragar nodded. “But you have no heirs, Frankenstein.”

Frankenstein stopped in his tracks and looked at Ragar, smirking with bemusement. “Who, might I ask, would I even have a child with?”

Ragar looked into the distance at a lovingly carved and painted building, an architectural monument for the glory of a god he did not know. “You can have one with me.”

Frankenstein scoffed, entirely amused.

“Once I am well.”

“Ragar, don’t be ridiculous.”

“You do not believe I am capable of creating child?”

Frankenstein sighed at the ground. “No, I believe you are perfectly capable, but that doesn’t make the idea any less absurd.” He looked forward again at the approaching cathedral. “A child...would only be in danger with me.” There was a tragic faraway look in Frankenstein’s eyes. 

His words had history, and this, Ragar understood. He pressed Frankenstein no further regarding the subject.

They passed beneath archways of gleaming white. Someone in the distance was playing music joyfully on a piva and a small gathering of people danced and jested along. Another scurried over with a flute in hand, recognizing the musical piece and not wanting to miss out on the festivities.

Ragar had grown to appreciate such things, simple and human but grand. The multitudes of the world vastly dwarfed his existence when he stepped outside of a small and isolated Lukedonia. He had bowed before noblemen clouded by their drifting incense and fluttering with sleek silk robes and prominent headdresses, had stowed away on a rocky ship carrying goods eventually doomed to the salty sea, had puffed strange smoke made from strange plants and pathetically coughed it all up around a flickering fire. He saw palaces of glittering gold and bold patterns, saw ramshackled, nature eaten homes, saw the blinding white glaciers, the silky deserts, the dense jungles and their confounding animals, life taking on any and every form as the many, many legs of a giant centipede tap-tap-tapped across his face, much to Frankenstein’s distress.

And here he was, seeing things, experiencing things with Frankenstein always there. He looked up at a statue, white marble carved into the perfect imitation of soft human flesh and fabric: the human form enlarged and celebrated. Ragar wanted to celebrate right along. He was amazed. Humans made many amazing things, and they were never satisfied, it seemed, always changing, expanding, transforming themselves and the landscape.

And there was Ragar, standing still, with the lifespan of nations but not having managed to accomplish anything humans could do in just their few years. He was dwarfed, standing at the foot of the statue with its carved eyes gazing far, far away.

* * *

A terrible, chilling scream echoed through the walls, a cursed wailing that pierced deep into one’s consciousness.

Ragar’s eyes shot open in the dark.

Screaming and screaming.

Heart thudding, Ragar darted out of bed, leg only panging with minor pain with each step as he rushed to Frankenstein’s room and slammed the door open.

Blood was spilling on the floor and seeping down in between the wooden boards. Frankenstein, hands clawed and black, was on his knees, bent over, eyes wide open and glowing Dark Spear’s signature color. His top was shredded along with his chest and neck, and he continued to rake his claws deeply across his throat, digging and tearing fibers of muscle and screaming himself hoarse.

Ragar, shaken and confused, dropped down and took a hold of Frankenstein’s wrists, one in each still bandaged hand. His skin burned as he wrenched Frankenstein’s arms apart, but they fought him, trying to pull again towards his weeping, self-inflicted wounds.

“Frankenstein!” Ragar called, shaking him.

Those eyes, violet and wide, were seeing things in a faraway reality, seeing things that Ragar could not see. They trembled with their vision.

“Frankenstein!” Ragar tried again, mustering his power with the effort, his own eyes taking on their own red glow.

Frankenstein bared his fangs at things that didn’t exist.

Ragar shoved him back, pinning him against the floor, dragging his blood across the wood grain. “Frankenstein, stop! Stop, please! Frankenstein!” he frantically begged, voice cracking.

Frankenstein twisted and writhed on the floor, screaming like a dying man thrown into the fires of hell to die again, his claws dug into his own palms and blood pooled in his hands and splattered every time they struggled and were forcefully slammed back down back Ragar.

He screamed and screamed, unblinking, unseeing.

“Frankenstein!  _ Please! _ ” Ragar could only hold on, sick and then sicker with dread with every minute Frankenstein was lost to this manic possession.

Then, finally, he stopped. Suddenly and jarringly, he became still, a man with the dead, myopic eyes of fish. The glow slowly faded from his irises, and Frankenstein blinked, at last awake.

Ragar took a deep, shaking breath, feeling weak with relief as he let go of Frankenstein’s wrists and sat back, giving the other man room to reorient himself.

Frankenstein blinked a few times more, staring blankly at the ceiling, tears running from the corners of his eyes. After some silence, he slowly sat up, swallowing at the rawness in his throat. He took notice of the blood on the floor and on himself, and tentatively, he raised a hand to his chest and throat, staining his fingertips with blood.

Ragar watched him cautiously. “What...happened?” he asked.

“I…” Frankenstein croaked. He attempted to clear his throat. “I was dreaming.”

Ragar was bewildered. “About what?”

Frankenstein’s lips lifted into a shaky, crooked smile, simultaneously gentle and greatly pained, and it meant everything to Ragar. “About you,” he said. Frankenstein shortly dropped the smile and looked down at the floor, bringing his hand again to his throat. “I should...clean this up.” He looked exhausted out of his mind.

“I can do that,” Ragar offered.

Frankenstein wryly shook his head. “No...no...I’ll do it. It’ll help me calm down. Go rest, Ragar, please. I’ll see you in the morning.” He smiled gently again but did not meet Ragar’s eyes.

Ragar looked at him, lips pressed thinly together behind his mask. He breathed out, nodded, and left Frankenstein to his privacy.

When he saw him again in the morning, there were bandages wrapped all the way around his throat.

* * *

Ragar was always watching, and he watched closely, and sometimes he would catch Frankenstein, frozen and staring off into the distance at things that Ragar was sure did not exist.

“Frankenstein!” Ragar rushed over and shoved his shoulder back, grasping it firmly in his hand.

Frankenstein blinked awake. He looked down to see his claws dragging through his forearm. Blood striped his skin and landed on the floor. “Oh…” He turned to the kitchen and away from Ragar. “Tea is ready…” he said, pulling his sleeve back down.

* * *

When it happened again, when the house shook with that terrible screaming, Frankenstein had ripped up his entire chest, deep enough to expose the white of his collar bone. He was tearing himself apart, as if his very own body disgusted him, and his soul was trying to escape through the gashes he inflicted upon himself. His claws were digging into his abdomen, forcefully pulling apart his flesh into an opening, a doorway. Screaming on the floor, he was tearing through his skin, his fat, his muscles, his organs, hooking his fingers even under his ribs, and Ragar was sure that he would have snapped and pried his ribcage open like angel wings had he the opportunity.

The horrific shine and splatter of gore was under silver moonlight. And again, Ragar, with all of his desperation, held Frankenstein back.

Blood spurted from Frankenstein’s numerous wounds and from his mouth with every effort. A region of skin and a thin layer of pale yellow fat had separated from his muscle and folded loosely near the wide, dripping chasm in his abdomen. There was so much of it, so much blood, its ringing metallic scent sinking deep into Ragar’s tongue and hair.

Ragar, for the first time, felt like crying. He scrambled and yelled for Frankenstein just as harrowingly, hoping that it would please  _ dear lord stop. _

Frankenstein’s eyes eventually returned to him, and his wild, manic expression was replaced with something deeply more pitiful and agonized. He still screamed even as his body settled. Ragar held him as Frankenstein curled into himself on the floor, shrieking and gasping in a destroyed body shaking with sobs, tears smearing with the blood on his face and the floor.

After a while, he stopped, falling into a grim silence and stillness, and Ragar backed away slowly, more shaken than ever, himself now soaked in Frankenstein’s blood.

It took longer this time for Frankenstein to get up, and when he did, he only slumped against the wall, smearing blood against it as well, wordless and staring at nothing in particular. His blood became sluggish, and his raw, scorched hands rested limply by his sides on the now damp and sticky floor. He had, at that moment, absolutely nothing left to give.

Swallowing, Ragar simply and silently crawled over and sat closely next to him, shoulders touching warmly. He rested his arms on his bent knees and looked forward, offering his quiet camaraderie. Ragar did not know what would come over him if he looked at Frankenstein now.

But then he did when Frankenstein groaned quietly and curled forward, placing a careful hand on an oozing cavity, and it made an obscene sound. He heaved and vomited blood and emptied all the half dissolved contents of his damaged stomach onto the floor in between his legs. Coughing wetly, he kept his head down and rested his forehead on his arm on his knees, matted and wet hair falling forward, hiding his face from Ragar.

And Ragar, at the moment, found himself grateful that Frankenstein could not see his own pitiful expression even if covered by the mask.

“It’s never been this bad before...” Frankenstein confessed after a while, voice strained and creaking—splintered to bits. He sounded on the verge of crying.

It was then that Ragar realized the loneliness of it all. He could only beg and plead with his voice and restrain him with his hands. He wished he could say that he looked at Frankenstein with painful sympathy, but that would imply that he knew what it was that Frankenstein went through, that he  _ understood _ , but in the darkness of that room, against the glint of blood on the floor, Ragar knew that he did not, and it sickened him that he could do no better. His face creased with sadness, then with indignation, then, finally, with helplessness.

He pressed closer to Frankenstein, gently leaning his head against his shoulder and curling an arm around to place the most futilely comforting hand he could on Frankenstein’s leg. Ragar sighed only to let Frankenstein know he was there.

Frankenstein, hardly conscious, allowed himself to lean into him.

They stayed together for the rest of the night.

* * *

They had once again gone back to the site of the facility.

“It’s all gone.” Frankenstein surveyed the destroyed landscape, walls reduced to debris.

Ragar appeared suddenly in a breeze by his side. “I could find no traces of the stone. It appears that they have relocated.”

Frankenstein clicked his tongue and kicked a rock into the water.

* * *

Ragar knew how long it took for a stone to fall from the edge of the second story window. He also knew what speeds he was able to reach when wielding Kartas. So it was simple math to determine how long the trip should be for him to just make it back and catch the stone before it hit the ground.

He tipped the stone over and leapt out the window.

The early morning sun was cresting over the distant, blue hills as Ragar bounded over the rooftops, steps silent and fleeting. He would run and run until he saw the clock tower; then, the moment he set foot on the third building nearest to it, he would sharply spin and head back. As he fluttered, too fast to make out by normal human eyes, the city slowly woke: a woman flung a bucket of waste water out her window, a child playfully ran out onto the street, a man snapped the reigns of his horse, a rat scurried into an obscure corner.

The chilled air stung his face as he huffed and tried to will himself faster, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that he could make it. The familiar unassuming shape of their current home approached in Ragar’s vision too slowly, and when he arrived to his starting point, the stone was already on the ground. He didn’t even see it land.

So he started again: carrying the stone to the window, tipping it over, running. And again, and again.

He sighed deeply at the end of another attempt, pulling his mask up. Like a frustrated child, he pointlessly kicked dirt into the air and sulkily watched it softly billow and fall over his boots. He clenched the stone in a tight fist, wondering if perhaps this was his limit after all: slow and mediocre without a soul weapon and the force of his predecessors spurning him on. Could he not do anything on his own? he wondered. But his eyes tightened at the memory of those night time terrors: Frankenstein screaming with damnation, destroying himself with his own hands, soaking in blood and gore and then waking only to look like he would rather be dead, too exhausted to live; such things would only worsen the more Frankenstein took on and consumed. And Ragar realized that such mediocre thoughts for mediocre people were unacceptable; he  _ must _ run faster, he  _ must _ hit harder, he  _ must _ be better. There was, simply, no other option, for his friend

So he started again. And again. And again. Until his limbs ached and his burning lungs felt like they would collapse, until he could barely drag his legs home and flop down against the wall and stare up at the blue afternoon sky.

Mindlessly, he tossed the stone into the air, and as he reached out to catch it, there Frankenstein was, looking down at him and shadowing him from the sun. 

Frankenstein extended his hand and caught the stone before placing it into Ragar’s palm. “You’ve been at this for eight hours. There’s only so much you can force on your body in a day before you start doing more harm than good.”

Ragar huffed and pushed himself up, legs feeling only a little wobbly, despite Frankenstein’s concern. He looked at him, eye to eye, unsatisfied.

“Lagus has shaken you, I understand—”

“You do not understand,” Ragar said. “He defeated me, but that is not what has disturbed me, Frankenstein.” He glanced dejectedly to the side. “It is you. You may have easily destroyed him, but he has hurt you far more than he has hurt me. And I…” Ragar took a breath, eyes searching for Frankenstein’s with all of his honesty, and they were tense and tragic as if it all rushed forth in his vision and he was re-realizing its terribleness. “I  _ never  _ wish to see you like that again.”

“Ragar...That is…” Frankenstein smiled, strained and unsure, losing his words. He failed to meet Ragar’s gaze and fell silent, like he knew that if he continued his thought, he would only crush Ragar’s hopes. He sighed. “Just, take a break before you continue. I will spar with you, if you so wish.”

Ragar straightened at the offer. “But you and Dark Spear…”

“I will hold back. There is no need to worry.”

“You saying that is only the more reason to worry,” Ragar stated.

Frankenstein chuckled cynically, but his smile was a genuine one. “I mean it this time,” he said, expression easing. “We will stop before anything happens to either of us.”

Ragar narrowed his eyes seriously, considering, and then nodded. He tugged at his mask in restrained approval.

* * *

Again, they were on that forested island just off the coast of the mainland, and when Frankenstein first brought down that rain of bolting spears and Ragar darted in between them with his aura slicing speed and acrobatics, they were lifted by an intense nostalgia. Suddenly, that forest was Lukedonia’s forest, and they were more youthful, more foolish, the thrill of battle coursing through the very air. Ragar’s breathing swelled with it.

He leapt forward, bringing a cut down on Frankenstein’s shoulder and torso, drawing a long line of blood on his white shirt, and Frankenstein, just as quickly, drove his spears into his body. Ragar grunted and swept back. He huffed at the sharp sting of his wounds. Tugging at his mask, he mustered his strength, and then there were phantoms—two, three, four, five, he managed, his forms surrounding his friendly and fired opponent.

But Frankenstein, great and grand, paid them no mind, flaring dark power at all of them simultaneously.

Ragar only barely managed to evade it all, corrosion grazing his chest.

Then, there were more, relentless and raining. Frankenstein had not even summoned the spear itself, but his powers still razed the landscape. Darkness, sizzling and frigid, crashed into the ground, wave after wave, and in the middle of it all, in his element, Frankenstein was hurtling towards the Ragar he knew to be true in his violet-blazing eyes. Dark Spear coalesced into his hand, and he drove it forward.

It pierced his body, and Frankenstein swung, widening the gash and throwing Ragar back. The phantoms disappeared as Ragar landed and skidded back, dripping blood onto the scorched earth. Pained but undeterred, Ragar pushed himself off of the ground, fast and faster, concealing himself with his powers, sharpening his senses and his cuts. He twirled around Frankenstein, aiming for his back, managing a shallow slice but was quickly deflected. His hand sprayed blood as it met Dark Spear’s blade.

And Frankenstein dropped low, swinging at his legs as he was pushed back, unbalancing Ragar, but he quickly righted himself and flipped backwards to land on his feet, taking off again as soon as he felt the solid ground under him. He managed to land one or two more wounds on Frankenstein, but they were, ultimately, child’s play.

Ragar huffed, then silenced himself. There was no god and no ancestors to call to. He had himself, his body, his will. That was whom he prayed to.

He was alight with noble powers entirely his own, and he gave Frankenstein everything he had—everything, from his history to himself. He cut him well, cut him deeply, and there was a rush every time he did so, even if he knew this was only a fraction of Frankenstein’s current performance in battle. But he wanted to reach farther, push harder. He strained for his speed, invisible, and he landed, shoving his sharpened hand into Frankenstein’s flesh, spraying blood.

That darkness rose sharply into the air and descended upon him. His body bruised and burned and he found himself on the ground, looking up at a dark form high in the air. Frankenstein came down on him, breaking a small canyon into the ground, and when the dust cleared, Dark Spear hissed in the broken earth just next to Ragar’s head. Frankenstein was standing over him, blood dripping from his wound onto Ragar.

He sighed and straightened, letting go of Dark Spear as it dissolved. Frankenstein stepped back, smiled, and extended a helpful hand to Ragar.

Ragar silently looked up at him like there was something profound, in his blue eyes and in his golden hair, but his eyes were not beautiful because they were blue, and his hair was not beautiful because it was gold. It was Frankenstein himself who embellished those colors so that they became beautiful. On anyone else, colors were just colors, but on him, they meant something.

“Are you going to get up? Or have you decided to take a nap?”

Ragar blinked, realizing he had been motionlessly staring. He tugged at his mask, embarrassed and then sat up and grasped that friendly hand. Centuries ago, he had sworn to Sir Raizel that he would remain by Frankenstein’s side, but above all, he had sworn to himself. And holding that hand, it was impossible to imagine ever letting go or any reality in which they had parted.

“Thank you,” Ragar murmured as he got to his feet.

Frankenstein huffed softly and smirked, playful, challenging, and bright, as he put his hands in his pockets. He looked into the distance, towards the city, head held high, and Ragar looked at him, and Ragar knew, because he had a way of knowing things, that Frankenstein was unbreakable.

Frankenstein turned back and smiled uniquely for him—the miracle of the sun rising and the blessing of the evening.

Perhaps he had no gods and no ancestors, perhaps he had abandoned all power and prestige, but Ragar had a friend, and that was all he needed.


	4. Chapter 4

_ USA, 20th century. _

They were roaring down Highway 13, the slick curves of the blinding yellow Ferrari Dino like a bolt of lightning in the late night. Elvis was blasting on the radio and out the rolled down windows.

The airconditioning was biting as they walked in. The air of the lounge billowed with smoke and money. Drinks purchased, poured, and swallowed as easily as coins.

“Why are we here?” Frankenstein asked.

“Your keys,” Ragar said and tossed them towards him.

The car keys clinked as Frankenstein caught them.

“Let us find a seat.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Ragar tugged at his mask and led the way, weaving through the dim mood lighting and the sound of live piano. They eventually found a booth tucked away in a corner casted in a warm glow and slid into the cushioned seats.

They stared at each other, hands folded.

“...Are you going to tell me now?”

Ragar continued to watch him in silence for several long seconds. “You have been disappearing on your own for the past few weeks,” he finally said. “And when you come back, you are unwell, every Tuesday and Thursday, and today is—”

“Thursday, I know. So you want me to reveal what I’ve been doing?”

“If you would grace me with an answer.”

Frankenstein leaned back and crossed his arms. He lifted his lips into the smile of a bastard who happened to know everything but would reveal nothing. “Well, I won’t.”

“Perhaps after a few drinks you will.” Ragar slid over a dainty cocktail he had discreetly swiped from somewhere in the middle of their conversation.

“That’s not even yours. And I can’t get drunk on regular alcohol.”

“I am only asking that you humor me this evening.”

“So the point of this whole occasion…”

“Is your company.” Ragar nodded gracefully. “But if you do wish to intoxicate yourself—as I can drive—I have brought your personal poison.” He reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out a small eyedropper vial with darkened glass and placed it on the table with a soft clink.

“Hm.” Frankenstein reached for it. “How considerate of you.”

“It is beyond me how you can swallow that concoction.”

“I’ve had worse.” Frankenstein unscrewed the top and drew clear liquid into the eyedropper. He squeezed two drops onto his tongue but could not help the scrunched, sour expression that followed. “God, that  _ is _ awful. But that’s why you mix it in with other drinks.” He looked at the mysterious martini. “I’m not drinking that,” he stated flatly. “I don’t know where it’s been.” He got up. “Wait here,” he told Ragar.

Frankenstein returned shortly after with two glasses of deep amber liquid on ice, each decorated with a thin orange peel, and set them on the table. “Chevalier Noir. One for you, one for me.” He slid into his seat and pulled out the eyedropper again. “I’ll be spiking my own drink, so don’t get them mixed up.”

They clinked glasses.

One drink was followed by another: Daiquiris, Old Fashioned, Manhattans, Grand Margaritas, Kentucky Blues, Toasted Lemons, and so on and so forth, some sweet, some spicy, some smooth and others hard to swallow. The colors and presentations entertained Ragar, and he did enjoy the milder drinks, but the alcohol itself did little for him, as was ideal. He liked to think he was rather responsible behind the wheel. Ragar only pulled his mask down for the sip and then pulled it back up as soon as he lowered his glass, exposing his face as little as possible, constantly keeping a finger poised on the fabric.

“Watching you do that is exhausting,” Frankenstein said. “Just pull it down and keep it down.” A subtle, healthy blush had settled on his face. The vial on the table was three quarters empty.

Ragar remained silent.

Frankenstein looked at him and huffed indignantly. Then, a loose smile crept on his face and his eyes shined. “Do you want to hear a secret?” he conspired, hushed and unprompted, leaning his face on his hand. “The reason I’ve been disappearing…”

Ragar looked up from his drink, ice clinking.

“It’s a  _ surprise _ ,” Frankenstein said, looking like the happiest man on Earth. He laughed like he had told a very funny joke.

“Perhaps you have had enough for the night,” Ragar said and reached forward to drag Frankenstein’s glass away, leaving a trail of condensation on the table.

Frankenstein’s expression instantly flattened. “What are you talking about?” He dragged his glass back. “The vial’s not empty yet. I’m not done until it’s empty.”

Ragar sighed but relented. He momentarily pulled his mask down to take another sip and then glanced to the excessive row of empty glasses on the side of the table. He did not see this large of a collection on any other table.

When Ragar looked back at Frankenstein again, he was staring to the side, to the distance, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. There was something tenderly tragic in his expression. Ragar looked in that direction as well, and across the room was a man, slender and beautiful with dark hair catching the light of the lounge. He looked like he had arrived alone and held himself gently, having the appearance of being soft to the touch in an expensive and pristine white suit. It was obvious whom the man reminded Frankenstein of.

“Frankenstein…” Ragar murmured seriously. “You know that’s not him.”

Frankenstein quietly turned back to his drink. “I know…” He absently traced the rims of the empty glasses with his finger, one to the next. Then, suddenly, he uncapped the vial and dumped the whole thing into his remaining drink. He tossed the framboise down his throat and moved to get up.

Ragar reached forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, stilling him for a moment. “Frankenstein,” he cautioned firmly.

Frankenstein gave him an understanding but ultimately dismissive smile and left the booth, gently brushing Ragar’s hand away.

He sighed and watched from a distance, fingers curled around the condensation of his cold glass as Frankenstein, with that sunny, suave smile, approached the man.

* * *

“Honey, you’re so good…”

Ragar was sitting on the cold curb, rummaging through his pockets to distract himself.

“Oh, oh, yes!”

A long receipt from the organic grocery store.

“H-harder—”

A lighter.

“Mmm! Ahh!”

A cigarette.

There was thudding against the walls of the car.

A few decades ago, Frankenstein had offered Ragar the novelty of a cigarette, and Ragar graciously accepted only to embarrass himself as he struggled to down the toxic mix of chemicals and ash in burnt form. He did not like the taste or the smell or the way it made him cough and wheeze. This seemed to amuse Frankenstein at the time.

Long, low moans; high, swinging cries. Hands were scrambling against the fogged window.

A few days ago, Ragar had spotted a pack of cigarettes at a store and it occurred to him to pick it up and attempt again to understand the strange human invention and the connotations that went along with it, images of the cool Marlboro Man floating to his memory. He enjoyed the soft flicking sound the lighter made when a flame came to life. Against the chilling breeze, he held the fire up to hopefully the correct end, and once it started glowing and flaking ash, he held the cigarette up to his mouth, tugging his mask down with his other hand, and took a careful drag.

“So good...”

He doubled over coughing up smoke.

Blinking the burn from his eyes and clearing it out of his throat, he pulled his mask up again and put out the cigarette against the concrete of the sidewalk, admitting defeat. He would never be as cool as the mythical Marlboro Man.

“Oh—I’m cu—!”

Ragar could swear that the car was rocking.

There was grunting, and then there was silence.

After a few minutes, Ragar heard the click of the car door unlocking and opening. The man in the white suit stepped out, brushing his mussed black hair back with a hand and checking himself and his pockets over. He smiled sweetly and sighed, straightening himself. He bid a benign farewell and walked off into the night like a pale ghost, like a memory.

Shortly after, Frankenstein emerged from the car, just as disheveled. Still intoxicated, he brushed his fingers through his hair and clumsily attempted to redo his black ribbon.

Ragar stood up and walked over, tossing the cigarette onto the ground. He quickly looked Frankenstein up and down: shirt wrinkled, skin pink, and expression hazy. Ragar reached forward, displacing Frankenstein’s own fingers around his ribbon, and neatly tied it into the usual bow he always wore.

“Oh…” Frankenstein looked down and attempted to brush out the creases of his shirt. “Thank you…” He gave his black jacket a good, straightening tug. “And thank you...for waiting.”

Ragar nodded, silent and patient, and received the keys from him.

Frankenstein, smelling of alcohol and a stranger’s cologne, dozed off in the passenger seat on the drive home. He awoke in the morning in his own bed.

* * *

The redwoods, as ancient as any noble, towered high above them, their dense leaves carpeting the sky and leaving only speckles of sun on the soft earth. Birds chirped overhead, and two squirrels chased each other up a tree.

“It should be around here…” Frankenstein was looking at the ground.

“It is here.” Ragar was standing by a large root covered with branches, mulch, moss, and whatever else nature had to offer. He bent down and parted the debris. As he slid his finger against the side of the root, it caught on a small cavity and behind it was a switch. The mechanism clicked, and something shifted subtly under the ground.

“Good eye,” Frankenstein said and then in one motion, swept the patch of forest floor clean. Embedded in the ground was a metal door. He pried it open, and they lowered themselves inside.

“An appropriate location; I’m talking about the roots.” Frankenstein looked around the tight lab characterised mostly by dark gray utilitarian metal machines and cabinets. “Glad to know she wasn’t lying.”

“Claudia Tradio is wise to not take after her predecessor. I hope she has made a safe journey back to Lukedonia.”

Frankenstein opened up the drawers and checked the machines, gathering documents and data, and then, finally, a heavy, locked black box. “The combination…”

“Is  _ eot, sa, ah, tot, em, epth _ ,” — letters of the Lukedonian alphabet. “That is what she told me,” Ragar said.

Frankenstein entered the sequence of symbols with the stiff buttons, and the lock clicked. Carefully cushioned in dense, gray foam: blood stones of varying luminosities and even wavelengths, some leaning towards orange and others towards violet. He closed the case and nodded. “That seems to be it. Let’s head back.”

Ragar nodded, and they escaped into the woods.

“We are being followed,” Ragar murmured.

“Shoot them,” Frankenstein whispered.

Ragar leapt into a horizontal twirl, reaching to the holsters on his sides to draw his heavy black pistols and aimed backwards. He unloaded his bullets, some ricocheting off of the trees, tearing through bark.

“You would aim your weapon at me, Ragar?”

They stopped.

“Has Frankenstein filled your mind with his nonsense?”

“Old man.” Frankenstein’s lips lifted belligerently.

Gejutel’s solid, brick-like form stepped from behind a tree, his long black and white robes fluttering gently despite his gravely calloused and large appearance. “Claudia Tradio told me I would be able to find you here.”

“My apologies for aiming fire.” Ragar put away his guns and tugged at his mask. “I did not know it was you.”

“Only because  _ you _ were acting so suspiciously,” Frankenstein interjected, sneering at Gejutel. “What business do you have with us?”

Gejutel coughed into his fist, appearing to grow even taller and more regal, as if he was preparing himself for very important, stately affairs. “It is not I in particular who has business with you. The leader of the Loyard clan and a youth of my own lineage have been sent by Lord Raskreia to do further investigations after recent developments regarding noble involvement in criminal matters. To my knowledge, there are still three clan leaders unaccounted for in these schemes: Gradeus, Urokai, and Edian. And of course there is…” Gejutel suddenly looked less like the intimidating embodiment of well aged masculinity and nobility and looked, for lack of a better word, more human.

“Master,” Frankenstein finished for him.

“Yes…”

There was a quiet rustling. Two white haired and red-eyed nobles in decorated black, white, and gold attire descended from above. They held themselves with mustered grace and pride typical of nobles.

“Seira J. Loyard and Regis K. Landegre will report back to Lukedonia with any new findings.”

Frankenstein’s presence took on a dangerous edge, and Ragar glanced at him with brief and exasperated worry. “I haven’t seen your wrinkly, tired face and stupid zebra stripes for over 700 years, and you have the audacity to suddenly show up and dump these two...two  _ children _ on me?”

Seira’s face remained placid, but Regis’s snapped to one of offense. He opened his mouth to say something, but was subdued by a firm look from Gejutel.

“Old man...you must think very highly of me.” Frankenstein smirked.

Gejutel huffed, head held high. “Understand, Frankenstein, I do not trust you. I have led these two in Ragar’s direction; you only happen to be in his company.”

“As hard headed and calloused as I remember, I see.”

“That is all I have to tell you, Frankenstein. I will take my leave.” Gejutel turned swiftly around, his long scarf spiralling in the process. “Ragar, I do not understand what you see in that man.”

“I think you understand very well, Gejutel,” Ragar said quietly behind his mask.

Gejutel glanced back. He looked forward again. “Hmph.” He took off.

* * *

“So, you’re the new generation, I understand.” Frankenstein set out the plates of shawarma and then took a seat himself at the dining table.

Ragar looked at them eagerly. He remembered them from their days in the Ottoman Empire.

“Why would Lukedonia send its young ones on missions like this?”

“To make us better prepared for future undertakings.” Seira’s voice was quiet and polite. She stared curiously at the steaming wraps. “This will be Regis’s first time outside of Lukedonia.”

“Sir Gejutel assured us you would train us well,” Regis added.

“Did he now?” Frankenstein smiled falsely and dangerously. “I swear I am going to annihilate that old geezer if I see him or his dumb stripes again,” he muttered darkly to himself.

Ragar reached forward for the tongs and placed a wrap onto Seira’s and then Regis’s plate. “You are to eat these,” he gently informed them. “They are rolled so that you may use your hands.”

Seira was the first to take a gracious bite. She blinked and softly blushed upon tasting the food. She nodded, demure. “I believe this will be an educational experience.”

Ragar nodded his approval as well.

* * *

One Tuesday, Frankenstein left and did not return until the early morning of Friday. The door was hastily and clumsily thrown open. Blood dripped onto the welcome mat from his arms.

Ragar quickly got to his feet and looked Frankenstein over. “What happened? Where did you go?”

Frankenstein leaned against the wall of the entranceway and sighed. He smiled sharply. “I told you, it’s a surprise,” he said.

* * *

Ragar flew in an arc in the air and aimed for the center of that wide swing. Blazing metal clanged against the smile of Seira’s scythe as she swung a roaring crescent towards him, tearing the air, but Ragar had already beelined elsewhere.

He was suddenly very near, barrel of the gun pressed to Seira’s back. He fired.

The bullet tore through her shoulder. She pivoted and crashed her blade down, nicking Ragar as he swerved away again.

Bullets flew in her direction, cutting up her Lukedonian uniform, sending specks of blood flying. Before Seira could lunge at Ragar again with her blade, he quickly summoned his powers around his hands. He deflected her scythe with one, sending it upward, and the other continued his arcing motion, slicing across her now open chest and abdomen, before flipping backwards, placing distance between them again as he took aim.

Seira swung widely across the landscape, but Ragar was above and he rained his bullets down. Some ripped through her thighs and her shoulders, others were cut by her blade.

Her torn up body dripped blood on the torn up ground.

Ragar gently landed in front of her. “Let us conclude here for today,” he said.

Seira straightened, huffing. She nodded. “Thank you, Sir Kertia.”

“Call me only Ragar.”

She dismissed the Death Scythe and peered at Ragar’s guns. “That is not your soul weapon, is it?”

Ragar holstered them. “No… They are a gift, from Frankenstein. I have no soul weapon.”

Seira’s eyes widened momentarily before a sort of understanding settled over her face. “That makes you only more impressive, Ragar.” She smiled gently. “I still have much to learn.”

There was soft clapping. Frankenstein walked over, Regis following closely behind. “An admirable performance, Miss Seira.”

She blushed.

His eyes turned over to Ragar. “Ragar, you can do better.”

Before he could respond to Frankenstein’s snarkily made comment, however, Ragar felt something hard and weighted hit his chest. He looked down; Frankenstein had shoved a pair of daggers to him, dark and gleaming. Where the blade connected to the grip was a stone shimmering a constantly shifting purple, as if alive.

“Try these on for size.”

Ragar could only hold his hands out as they fell into his palms.

_ “Surprise,” _ Frankenstein said.

He stared at them, curling his fingers around a familiar form, and it felt like coming home. “...You made these?” Ragar uttered in quiet awe.

Frankenstein nodded. “The blood stone in each of them contains some of Dark Spear.” He smiled and the air filled with deadly cold electricity. Black and purple sparked in glitching arcs around him. “Care for a test run with me?” he challenged, smiling a pointed smile with pointed teeth.

Ragar bowed his head, holding a dagger in each hand and one close to his chest. “I would be honored,” he accepted, feeling the rise of a familiar thrill. His aura blazed around those blades and then hushed into deadly silence.

In a blink, they took off at each other. The ground thundered, and the air cracked.

He did not know what it was, where it came from, or how it got there, but he knew he liked it, that feeling that would bloom in his consciousness like the flowers Frankenstein planted whenever they were in each other’s company, and Frankenstein seemed to only make it blossom bigger and brighter every time—the blaze and glory of the sun. He was an excellent gardener; this, Ragar knew.

So, with the weight of those new daggers in his hands as he pushed himself harder and faster, there was that feeling again. It made him want to weep. It made him want to kneel. It made him want to reach out as far as he ever could only to keep Frankenstein safely in his company. When he drove the blades into Frankenstein’s skin or cut up the air and earth, he did so with Frankenstein’s ever warm generosity.

He breathed with renewed vigor as he made himself disappear and darted in every direction, tracing warm, red ribbons all over Frankenstein’s body and shredding his shirt.

Earth trembled and disintegrated as Dark Spear crashed in all directions, blooming like spider legs, and drove into Ragar.

It was nostalgic.

Ragar tugged at his mask. Not a moment too soon, he was brushing against Frankenstein’s skin, pressing his blade to blood.

There was a sharp stinging in his hands, but the fight was too good to be missed. He paid the increasing burn no mind in the moment.

“I can hardly see them!” Regis exclaimed like the excited boy he was but quickly collected himself.

Seira watched carefully with admiration.

When Ragar rocketed towards Frankenstein again and brought his blade and himself intimately close, there was a moment in which they were eye to eye, breath to breath. They stared, seeing only each other. Ragar cut him enough to send blood spraying into the air, and Frankenstein pierced him enough send him recoiling back, feet skidding and drawing lines in the red dirt.

Their lips were lifted in smile, their quickened breathing in thrill.

They sent shockwaves through the air. Birds flew from the trees into the sky.

Ragar was warm with blood, soaked into his mask, dripping off his boots. Frankenstein made him bloom.

He blinked and straightened, suddenly feeling short of breath and embarrassed. There was a strange lightness he was feeling that made him giddy. He cleared his throat and futilely brushed himself off.

Then, he flinched, realizing the pain in his hands. He uncurled his fingers and looked down at his palm: bloody, raw, eaten away.

Frankenstein took notice, dismissed Dark Spear, and trotted over. He grabbed Ragar’s hand before he could lower them and flipped them so that his palms were up again. An expression characterised by terse disappointment and concern crossed his face. He sighed. “So even in this form…”

“My hands will heal,” Ragar comforted.

“Let’s get them bandaged anyway,” Frankenstein said tenderly.

Ragar looked up at him. The wounds were not serious, but Ragar knew Frankenstein knew what it was like to be in possession of Dark Spear, even if only for a moment. And Frankenstein looked at Ragar’s hands like it was he himself who caused Ragar great suffering.

Frankenstein released his hands and turned to the two younger nobles. “Miss Seira, you should get patched up as well.”

* * *

Ragar sat on his bed in his room, hands covered in careful bandages. He held the daggers to the light and they glinted at the sharp edges.

_ “I will keep these by my side,” _ Ragar had told him in the lab as Frankenstein slipped the bandages around his fingers, warm and gentle.

_ “I’ll see if I can do better,” _ Frankenstein told him back.

Humans made amazing things, and they were never satisfied, Ragar knew.

These were another gift of Frankenstein’s seemingly endless generosity. Looking at them, Ragar became overcome with a strange, soft warmth, and he hastily tugged his mask up even over his nose and cheeks, hiding the color he knew was there even if the only thing watching him was the walls. He hummed softly to himself, feeling like the world had opened up further for him, and it had, as he was by Frankenstein’s side and in his regard.

Ragar found himself eagerly awaiting the rise of the sun.


	5. Chapter 5

The wind coming from the bay was chilled as the night fog rolled in over the hills. Ragar breathed in the crisp wind as he bounded hidden in the dense trees lining the highway: a shadow, a cryptid.

Seira was keeping step next to him, running as fast as she could: a whisp, a ghost. “Would it not be beneficial to have Frankenstein’s help in this?”

Ragar kept his eyes ahead. “I do not want him to bear unnecessary suffering,” he said.

“But is he not powerful?”

“That is precisely the problem.”

* * *

They were shrouded in trees and night. “Recent documentation suggests that this facility is one that specializes in nobles.” Ragar turned to Seira. “I will check the computers. Stay close.”

She nodded, serious and firm.

The polished white halls glared with fluorescent lighting.

After a few uneventful doors and rooms, Ragar managed to swipe a key card from an unassuming and rather sleepy patrol.

The computer room, quite literally a room of a computer, was corner to corner with gray rectangular units five to six feet high with two disks in each behind glass. A large box of neat rows of disks sat next to the stocky main control desk which was patterned with rows and rows of switches and numbered lights. The systems somewhat resembled that of the IBM 7090 Ragar had seen elsewhere in labs equally equipped.

As of the moment, it was dark and empty, and Ragar got to work, leafing through punch cards meant for a computer’s reading and scouring through the careful labels of data tapes and disks. An unwieldy black binder sat open nearby full of pages and pages of dates and descriptions, logging the times of computer entries and the group of scientists responsible for each utilization of the computer.

Ragar stilled, a particular disk catching his eye. He tucked it away under his jacket.

“Someone is approaching,” Seira whispered by the door.

Pressing time, Ragar continued to rummage through the disks, finding a second one of the same series and also tucking it away on himself.

The door suddenly opened.

The agent fell face down unconscious on the floor.

The Death Scythe whispered in Seira’s hand.

Ragar glanced up to the blink of the surveillance camera tucked in the corner of the room. He tugged up his mask. “We should not press our luck. Let us head back.”

Seira nodded.

* * *

But the grounds of the facility were wide, and that gave its guardian enough time to shake off his apathy, trophy his weapon over his shoulder, and make his presence and his challenge known to the two intruders.

“So Ragar, tell me, was it you who killed Lagus?”

Ragar remained silent.

Gradeus smiled dangerously and cynically at the puff of dirt he casually kicked up. “He had promised me a blood stone, but thanks to  _ certain people _ , we’ve been experiencing a bit of a shortage, you see.

Behind his back, Ragar handed Seira one of the two data disks. “Such that if at least one of us gets away…” he whispered to her.

Seira glanced at him in solid acknowledgment.

The crashing swing of an axe broke them up, carving a deep gash into the ground. Gradeus lifted himself up grandly. “You know, I would have asked what you were whispering about, but frankly, why should I care about the conversations of dead people?”

Ragar glanced at Seira then focused back on Gradeus. “Gradeus,” he said, just as grand, drawing attention to himself, uncharacteristic of his class. “You speak cleverly for someone who knows little outside of blood and battle…” He pulled his mask, and darted forward, low to the ground, hands gripping those dark, sparking daggers. “But do you even know of those, I wonder.” He cut into Gradeus.

Blood dripped from his arms. He grinned wider, mouth and eyes becoming amorphous and dark. “Since when did you learn how to talk?” Gradeus said. “You always keep your mouth covered with that damn mask.”

“And perhaps you should not have one at all.” Pivoting, Ragar thrust his blade forward, to the base of Gradeus’s head. It pierced the back of his throat and out through his wide mouth.

Gradeus spat blood, but his tongue, sharp and grossly extended, curled around the blade as if to welcome it. He fed off of violence.

Gradeus swung his axe as Ragar withdrew his dagger. He drove forward, slicing up, and Ragar’s chest split open.

Ragar’s foot drew a soft arc in the dirt, and he disappeared. Daggers fluttering as silent as an owl’s wing, he shredded Gradeus’s skin with cuts.

Blades clanged against blade, and Gradeus, roaring with enthusiasm, let himself be sliced again and again. His eyes and mouth shifted and warped like black flame.

In the background, Seira stepped away, guarding her own disk. Before she could hide it a distance away, however, the crushing blow of a battle axe blocked her way.

“Where do you think you’re going, little Miss?”

In that moment of distraction, Ragar’s daggers dove deeply into Gradeus’s flesh, blades driving all the way to the hilts on either side of his neck. Blood fountained upward.

Gradeus stumbled back and groaned, turning around towards Ragar again. Confusion flickered over his face as he glanced down as his axe. “Why am I not…” He scowled and lunged forward, meeting Ragar’s daggers with both his blade and body.

Though still fleet footed, Ragar collected wounds on his chest, arms, and face.

“What did you do, Ragar?” Gradeus yelled, slamming Messad down, the edges of the black pits of his eyes and mouth searing red as his axe transformed from its subdued black and gray to a veined blood red. Horns curled from the skull at its end.

Ragar did not know what Gradeus was referring to, neither did he care to answer.

Quietly, his daggers crawled up and blackened his fingers, burning them with cold.

“It’s those, isn’t it?” Gradeus looked at Ragar’s hands. “That annoying power…So Frankenstein gave you a bit of Dark Spear, did he? That’s why I can’t seem to get stronger. All right then…” He turned his back to Ragar ominously. “We’ll try this!” Gradeus threw Messad and it spun as it sliced through the air straight towards Seira.

There was a great crash, dust billowing in the air. The Death Scythe was poised, blocking and ready for battle.

Gradeus called his axe back to his hand as he leapt up and brought it down on her.

Ragar pursued him, but Gradeus remained bizarrely focused on Seira until she could find an opening to stop blocking his flurry of heavy attacks and swing her own blade in a wide, deadly arc. Blood streaked across Gradeus’s body, and when it happened again, it seemed to excite him. His form flickered with raging power.

“Be cautious Seira,” Ragar said as he suddenly appeared between them, shoving Gradeus back against his axe with his daggers. “He will get stronger as you wound him.”

Gradeus swung against him, deeply tearing up his flesh, and Ragar was sent flying back. He rocketed towards Seira again, beckoning her to attack him.

Hesitating, she could only block so long before she was torn up and was forced to strike, her crescents wide and sharp. Leaping back, blood dripped from her shoulders and across her face.

Ragar found his footing and shoved his daggers against Gradeus only for them to be blocked by the body of the axe. He was forcefully shoved back as Gradeus’s smile split his face.

“We must outpace him,” Seira observed, lifting herself into the air. Her scythe sailed silently through the sky, drawing a wide circle—a portal. A death-white face appeared and a flickering black form emerged, colossal and ghostly. Like a god, the Grim Reaper’s mirage brought its blade and its call to death down. The ground erupted and tore, a canyon formed. Then, just a silently as it appeared, it vanished. Seira huffed.

Gradeus staggered, blood pouring from numerous wounds from his body, now brimming with power—high with it. “I’m impressed…” He lunged. “But that’s not enough, I’m afraid.”

Seira was flung into the ground with his force. She steadied herself, refraining from attacking until she could muster another powerful summon.

Ragar cut into Gradeus’s path, pushing him off course from Seira.

“You’re real annoying, you know that?” Gradeus swung at him. “Almost as much as that damn human!”

Ragar tugged at his mask, breathing hard. “High praise from you, Gradeus.”

“No, I take that back. You’re  _ just as _ annoying.”

“Higher praise.” He vanished into thin air. He appeared only as phantoms, blinking and then vanishing again, sparking red and black and cutting and cutting. The deeper he wounded Gradeus, the more thrilled he felt. But then he was thrown off, the body of Messad crushing the wind out of him and its blade carving his leg.

The wounds Gradeus received from the dark daggers were edged in black, decaying. Ragar’s hands were constantly burning. They both remained undeterred.

Ragar huffed, wincing at the bloody chasms on his body. He took off again.

Gradeus roared, slicing in all directions, sweeping deadly arcs over the ground and the distant tress and nicking buildings.

“Ragar, behind you.” Seira’s voice was calm as she again took to the air, her scythe raised high. She slammed it down and heated shockwaves washed over the land. The earth split, and debris flew straight up at terminal speeds.

The attack rocketed towards Gradeus and hit cleanly. He made no effort to dodge or block. Blood was traded for power. Gradeus leapt out of the cloud of dust, his physical form breaking down.

Faster and stronger, Gradeus landed a swing on Ragar, his blade sinking into his torso and slamming him into the ground like a doll. When that blade pulled away to slam back down again, Ragar rolled away and shakily got to his feet, groaning. Blood spurted from his torn open chest and stomach, a few ribs cut clean right through, and the blade had sunken deep enough to scrape his spine. Ragar’s body spilled blood with every movement. Trying hard to breathe, he summoned his speed again.

Blade to blade, to body, to blood.

“Seira, try to get away.”

“You’re not going anywhere!”

Before she could even attempt an escape, Seira was sliced all the way from her shoulder to her thigh. She grit her teeth and swung back, sending her blinding white crescent soaring into his body. It was perhaps unwise, as Gradeus charged at her with renewed vigor, fuelled by his own blood.

She barely managed to block, his force staggering her and driving her heels into the earth.

Ragar again shoved himself between them, his weapon meeting Gradeus’s with spark and clang. Then, he disappeared and reappeared behind him, stabbing both daggers into Gradeus’s shredded back and raking them downwards as if carving wings, but the only wings that appeared was the spray of blood.

Gradeus’s scream thundered through the air as he spun around, slicing Ragar across his body, almost gutting him at such close range, but Ragar swept back and vanished with his speed, the only sign of his path in the trail of blood on the floor and the droplets arcing in the air. Again, Gradeus’s body met his blades, searing with cold and singing with blood. He twisted them in his flesh before quickly fluttering away.

Seira distanced herself in the moment of Gradeus’s distraction. She slammed the Death Scythe into the ground, steadying herself and her concentration. Run away or finish this quickly? She chose the latter and found it in her will and power to draw that portal in the sky again. As the Grim Reaper awoke again to her assistance, she hoped and hoped that this was the wise decision. As it brought its blade down, that seemed to be the case.

Gradeus, barely physical, further broke the ground under his bloody body as he sprinted and leapt up to attack Seira only to be slammed to the side by Ragar and sent crashing down.

With effort, Ragar tugged up his mask, and in his aching, tired body drenched with blood, he willed himself faster—cut deeper, hit harder. Obscenely, he drove both daggers into Gradeus’s body, crossing them.

Not to be outdone, the long arc of Seira’s scythe slammed down deep into his body, entering from Gradeus’s shoulder and exiting through his side near his hip.

Seira pulled her blade from the front out through his back.

Ragar tore his daggers from inside out.

They ripped him apart.

Silence fell upon the landscape.

Seira let out a heavy, relieved breath and dismissed the Death Scythe with a swing.

Ragar tucked away his daggers. The darkness withdrew from his hands as he looked at them. Most of his skin had been eaten away, and what was left was raw, bloody muscle fibers. Steadily, his body began to cover them back up, but his fingers still trembled.

“Let us head back,” Ragar sighed, wrapping an arm around the open wounds on his torso and pulling what was left of his shiny leather jacket tighter around himself. He kept himself on his feet with momentous willpower.

The shuffle home was long and dripped with blood in every step.

* * *

The door was quietly opened, and Ragar and Seira stepped inside discreetly, but not discreet enough to escape Frankenstein’s notice.

Frankenstein saw them in the entranceway, Ragar leaning his hand against the white wall, staining it with his blood. Seira, as elegantly as she could, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, hiding her nerves.

He stared at them, worried and wordless, until he asked, “Where did you go? What happened?”

Ragar pushed himself off the wall and stumbled into Frankenstein, who caught him by his shoulder. “It’s a surprise,” Ragar murmured. He reached around to his inner pockets and shoved the data disk into Frankenstein’s chest.

Frankenstein took the the disk from him and held it in the light. On it, neatly written in marker, was the label ‘NB-31A - Cadis Etrama di Raizel’.

_ “Surprise,”  _ Ragar said.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Somewhere on Earth, 21st century. _

The lab was illuminated fully by the blue-green glow of the massive tank of fluids. Bubbles periodically floated to the top to burst on their lonesome. Edian, white cloaked and silent with the exception of the falls of her heels, circled the tank, lightly placing her fingers on the glass, reverent to her own Mecca.

She peered up through her long, white lashes. “Sir Raizel…” she whispered. “Would you find it in yourself to forgive me?”

Like all prayers to god, she received no answer.

* * *

Ragar was on the sofa, Nintendo console in hand as he busied himself with the pleasant task of fulfilling the mayoral duties of his little town of digital animals, planting color coordinated flowers in neat rows and catching whatever bugs he came across to later sell for money to pay off his mortgage.

Someone tapped his shoulder, and he turned around.

Tao grinned widely at him. “Since Boss and Seira are busy training, we’re having take out tonight—dim sum.”

Ragar silently nodded, saved his game, and placed it on the coffee table before standing up. He was sure he was perfectly capable of preparing dinner himself, but food had already been bought, and it was unseemly to let it go to waste.

Everyone, with the exception of the two aforementioned people, took their seats at the long dining table.

M-21 was the first to dig in, chopsticks swift and precise as he selected what he knew he liked best: beef dumplings, beef tofu skin rolls, and chicken feet. He liked foods with heft and bite, and meats were of that character.

When they had first encountered him with his canines bared to the world that had hurt him and his comrades too many times—and he wanted to hurt them back—he had just lost his longest and closest friend, M-24 who had deteriorated too fast from a drug that wasn’t adequate. It had the appearance of fun and games to him: kidnapping children and pitting them against a mutant created by M-24—the only thing that remained of his friend—but it was futile distraction. Surrounded by nobles he knew were stronger than him, M-21 only clicked his tongue and said, “This isn’t fun anymore.” He slashed at them knowing he would lose, but not entirely uninformed, he uttered the name “Noblesse,” in a passing comment and was then spared for his information. He quickly ratted out the Union with all of his current knowledge—he had no loyalty to them, and there was nothing left to lose except his life—and became first an insider, then an ally, then a friend and family. Mari and Jake were dealt with shortly after.

He and Regis took to each other like hornets, but Ragar knew they were as close as any pair of brothers, because when he first went missing, captured by Aris’s group, Regis was the first to hastily disappear trying to track him down. They ended up in the same boat, protecting the same school children.

DA-5, the group responsible for kidnapping M-21 and Regis, though thoughtfully designed on paper was less cohesive as a group in practice. Ragar was the one who handled Takeo as Frankenstein went ahead to deal with the rest of them, minus the weighted Hammer whom Seira made short work of.

The similarities between Ragar and Takeo extended past just their choice of hairstyles as battle commenced. When Takeo revealed his firearms and swallowed that red pill that heightened his senses and quickened his movements, Ragar thought it would be appropriate to draw his own recently upgraded guns even if he objectively performed better with his daggers; he liked the variety. “There is a human saying, is there not…?” Ragar said. “‘Never bring a knife to a gun fight.’ I think I will heed those words now.” Takeo was impressively fast for someone so young and unpracticed, and Ragar acknowledged him with a genuine compliment, but he was no match for Ragar’s own speed. His own dual pistols shined in the moonlight, and he felt the recoil of each shot against his palms. Ragar was having fun.

When Takeo, exhausted and wounded, a body full of bullets and bullet holes, staggered and collapsed, he had only a humble request of Ragar as he stared down the barrel of a gun. “Please, save the children.” And with a smile, he added, “They retrieved my wallet for me, you see. I got them involved in something they had nothing to do with and put them in danger. I hadn’t even apologized.”

Ragar, looking at him thoughtfully, lowered his gun and tugged at his mask. “You should speak to them yourself,” he said, and darted away. By the time he got to the hostage location, Frankenstien had already wiped the room clean. He crackled with Dark Spear, and Ragar looked on regretfully, wishing that the soul count had not increased yet again, but Frankenstein only smiled too pleasantly at him: business finished.

The school children flinched when Frankenstein looked at them. They had seen something terrible, but the memory would only be passed off as a bad dream they could hardly recall.

Of DA-5, only Tao and Takeo survived after Aris and Yuri were dealt with. They were quick to become members of the household and fellow security guards with M-21 at Franknstein’s school.

As of now, Takeo was gently chiding M-21 to slow down with his food. He had the foresight to predict what Regis would say about the matter had the sound of an unlocking door and people entering not distracted them.

Frankenstein and Seira returned, Seira wearing well bandaged arms.

Frankenstein looked over the table. “You started dinner without us?”

“Ah, well, we didn’t know when you would be back,” Tao piped up. “But there’s still plenty of food. You two must have worked very hard; gotta eat to fuel those beefy muscles!” He flexed his biceps.

Frankenstein smiled and chuckled a little, clearly amused at Tao’s playful antics. He and Seira took their respective seats, and dinner passed pleasantly.

* * *

Sometimes, late at night as he was stalking the halls, he would hear it, pacing and manic whispering. Frankenstein spoke hushed, broken, and incoherently to the presence in his mind and leeching his soul. When Ragar would catch him, his eyes would be in glow and trembling, looking at everything, everywhere at once. Even if Ragar would grip his wrists and stand in front of him, Frankenstein would not see him until it stopped. Frankenstein had stopped screaming and mutilating himself a while ago. That had been replaced with something else that was quieter and cleaner, but Ragar could not shake the ominous dread that filled him whenever it happened. There was something awful about it, like a mounting storm in the distance that could lay waste to the land at any instant. It reminded Ragar of news channels reporting another typhoon or hurricane sweeping through the land and sea, distant but disastrous. Frankenstein was speaking on his own, making deals on his own, suffering on his own. It was all so lonely even as Ragar stayed next to him.

* * *

They were in the lab. “I’ve tested them all, any blood stone we’ve been able to find so far, and there is not a trace of Master’s presence in any of them. If they were using Master to fuel these things, I would be able to tell, but there’s nothing.” Frankenstein huffed down at the monitor, crossing his arms. “But those disks...They suggested a periodic transfer of energy over a span of five years, and they were labeled, explicitly, with Master’s name; we  _ know  _ they have him.” He clicked his tongue. “Are there still more out there, more blood stones even  _ now _ ? Haven’t we taken all of them?”

A realization dawned upon Ragar—a dusty memory of horse drawn carriages, stones, and carved marble statues. “There is at least one more,” he said. “Four hundred years ago, Italy, near the cathedral.”

From the depths of his mind, Frankenstein seemed to wrench that memory forward as well, and it smacked him square in the face.

“Boss!” Tao barreled into the lab. “Someone wants to speak with you!”

They headed to the monitor room. On screen was a woman in a white cloak, her hood pulled down. She had light gray-brown hair and her lips bloomed with her bright red lipstick. Her clear lavender eyes regarded them seriously. “You must be Frankenstein,” she said once she saw him.

“Ooh, I must be famous.” Frankenstein lifted his lips in a guarded smile. “But I do not have the pleasure of knowing you, unfortunately. Pray tell.”

The woman seemed to straighten her shoulders even more. “I am the fifth elder, Lunark, and I have reached out to you to ask for assistance.”

Frankenstein dropped his smile and playful demeanor. “Why would a high ranking Union officer want help from us? And what kind of assistance?”

“I am looking for our Lord—”

“Then go to church.”

“Our Lord Muzaka,” she clarified, reigning in her scowl. “820 years ago, he disappeared. Someone — second elder Maduke — has taken his position, and I find him...distasteful. I wish to restore Muzaka once again to our throne.”

Frankenstein crossed his arms. “I knew Muzaka, yes, and because I knew him, I’ll give you a word of advice: look for a new lord, if a lord at all. He’s about as good at governing as the Union is at keeping test subjects alive.”

“Even if it is a temporary arrangement, he will be better than the maniac we currently have.”

“Tch. Whatever you do with your werewolf bureaucracy, why should we care? What’s in it for us?”

Lunark’s expression changed. She smiled with sharp teeth and her eyes gleamed like she knew a very dirty secret and knew that the cards were in her hands. “Cadis Etrama di Raizel, that’s the one you’re looking for, yes?” She had something invaluable. “Well, it just happens...I know what company he’s in—another maniac and a sad sap. Help me and you’ll be closer than you’ve ever been to finding him.”

Frankenstein fell silent for a moment. Then, quietly and seriously he said, “Fine, we have a deal.”

They met each other on a scenic rooftop that same night, two against three.

“You’ve brought backup,” Frankenstein observed. He glanced at a rather melancholic looking woman who had her long, red hair in generous waves. She was looking to the ground like someone had died and was buried there. To Lunark’s other side was a slender and young looking one, boyish in appearance and characterised by an almost fluorescent yellow in his closely cut hair and his wide eyes that seemed to constantly look at the world with caution.

“So have you,” Lunark said, glancing at Ragar standing closely and watching closer.

“Understand, if you try anything suspicious,” Frankenstein said, “I won’t hesitate to annihilate you or anyone you’re associated with.”

“I can say the same of you.” Lunark smirked.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Perhaps I will.”

They suddenly took off at each other, shaking the very foundations of the building upon impact. Frankenstein’s arms blazed black, and Lunark covered herself in course fur and extended her sharp claws. Their hands were locked in challenge.

“I think I like you already,” Lunark remarked, smiling with a snarl.

“You’re rather fierce yourself.” Darkness erupted from Frankenstein’s hands, shoving Lunark far back as corrosive projectiles pierced her palms. She skidded back and shook them off. The holes in her hands quickly closed, and Frankenstein dismissed the dark power off of himself, returning to his original position. “But back to business,” Frankenstein said after clearing his throat.

“Yes,” Lunark agreed firmly. She gestured to the people standing next to her. “Dorant, the one chosen by Muzaka to succeed him in the throne, and Garda, a close follower of his, will be joining us. They are excellent fighters and competent technicians should anything come up. If it’s power you need, Dorant will be your best bet.”

Dorant nodded silently.

Ragar kept an eye on him.

“There is a small facility that can serve as our base of operations. I still have my position as Fifth, and as long as word does not get out about our arrangement, it should be safe as it is under my jurisdiction.”

Frankenstein lifted his head. “Fierce and prepared, perhaps you will be of some use after all.”

“Let’s hope I can say the same of you, Frankenstein.”

“Oh, you don’t have to say anything; I already know I am.”

“He is, indeed, as he says,” Ragar added quietly.

* * *

Tao was rapidly skimming through all the documents, occasionally stopping to parse through security camera footage. On a third monitor was a map full of annotations. He swivelled in his chair and pointed to a location on the map. “Based on what you’ve gathered for me and what I’ve found doing my own digging, Muzaka would most likely be here.” His finger glided to another place. “Or here.”

“Wait, that’s…” Lunark narrowed her eyes with concern. “That’s Maduke’s castle.”

Frankenstein nodded and looked over the group. He turned to Dorant and Garda. “Yellow, Red, you’re a team. You take the first site. You’re Union folk, so getting around won’t be troublesome.” He looked at Lunark. “You’ll come with Ragar and me to Maduke’s. Use your position to smooth things over.”

She nodded.

“And you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those white cloaks would you?” Frankenstein added.

* * *

They came up to the castle and walked right through the front doors, the guards bowing their heads in greeting Lunark. Ragar and Frankenstein kept their Union hoods pulled up and their faces down as they shuffled inside.

The interior was perhaps even more ostentatious than the exterior. Frankenstein peered around, still careful to keep his face hidden. “Jesus, what century does he think we live in?” he whispered. “The place looks like it’s from the 1600s, but construction seems recent.”

“It is appropriate for a tyrant,” Ragar said. Because tyrants did those things; they called back to an idealized past, rallying people behind a history that never existed. Maduke was not special, even if he believed himself to be.

In the center of the grand entrance room was a sweeping staircase with golden curved handrails and newly carpeted in deep burgundy. Above them was a crowning chandelier trying to sparkle and shine like a fragment of sun broken off and trapped inside. To either side of the staircase were archways that led to a distance illuminated by blue light.

“So do people actually live here?” Frankenstein wondered.

“Only Maduke, as far as I know. Others come and go to report to him as needed,” Lunark said.

“You can’t be serious…”

“There are a few guards, but that’s all.”

Frankenstein smiled. “This should be easy then.”

“I would not underestimate Maduke, Frankenstein.” She headed to a space behind the staircase. “Let’s make this quick.”

A panel, a code, and the hidden doors opened for them. They descended into the depths of the castle. 

There was only a single lab floor underneath the castle, but it spanned widely under the whole footprint of the monument. In striking contrast to the vastly dated above ground construction, the lab facility was well equipped with the most up to date technology and fixtures, clean futuristic lines running along the walls rather than chiseled stone seams.

“Fifth? What are you doing here?” A plain looking scientist inquired as they were about to check another room.

Lunark turned around hastily as Frankenstein and Ragar averted their faces from the scientist’s dark, watchful eyes. She said nothing to them, but her gaze alone suggested an immediate suspicion.

“You’re rarely down here,” the scientist remarked. “And it’s even rarer that you would bring...guests.”

“Need you question me? You know my loyalty lies only with the future of our kind,” Lunark said.

“Yes, but does it also lie with Lord Maduke?”

“Maduke  _ is  _ our future.”

“Hm.” The scientist tilted her head in consideration. “Yes, that is the correct answer, but my first question remains: what are you doing here?” She eyed the two men. “You know only those with authorization from Lord Maduke himself may be in these labs.”

“They are fledgling followers, these two,” Lunark quickly replied. “It would be beneficial that they know the lay of the land in order to conduct business more efficiently. I myself am here to check on the latest series of blood stone experiments as the Union is experiencing a severe shortage as of late. I thought to show the two newbies around as well.” She waved her hand casually. “Two birds, one stone.”

The scientist smiled warmly. “Well, isn’t that efficient of you?” Her smile grew. “Carry on,” she said. Quickly, she darted away.

Ragar looked at Frankenstein. “Let us make haste.”

The lab doors hissed open. There was the large, ceiling high tank, the room casted in its blue glow, and it was empty.

“There’s nothing here…” Frankenstein said. He held his chin in his fingers. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Even if this isn’t where Muzaka is located, it’s still a lab facility, and we’ve checked every room, and all of them are empty. It’s like this whole place has been abandoned, but it’s too clean.”

Ragar realized then that, “The answer you gave the scientist was incorrect, Lunark. There are no blood stone experiments going on.”

She turned. “What? But the files said…”

“They must have been outdated.” Frankenstein sighed. “The experiments must have been abandoned, or…”

“They’ve been completed.” Ragar swiftly turned on his heel towards the door, white cloak fluttering. “We should leave and reconvene with the others. Perhaps they will know more.”

The ground trembled. There was an oppressive force that radiated through the air, the walls, and through their very bodies.

Ragar lowered his hood, no longer finding the use in it. “Company has arrived,” he observed.

Frankenstein blew air out his nose and lowered his hood as well. “That’s one way to say hi, I suppose.”

“Well, shit,” Lunark said.

A good two to three bounds away from the castle, they were met with a force that crushed the ground beneath them and would have crushed them had they not been able to dodge quickly enough.

Frankenstein clicked his tongue at their foiled escape attempt and discarded the white cloak with a flutter to the side. “Look, you’ve gotten the nice white fabric dirty,” he said.

There Maduke stood, in the dust of his grand entrance and face long and stern. His golden eyes were sharp and he looked at Frankenstein like they needed no introductions. “So you’re the infamous Frankenstein whose been a pain in our necks for the past eight hundred years.” His eyes shifted to the side. “And Lunark...you are with him”—he glanced at Ragar—“and a noble.”

Ragar shifted his footing, hands poised to his sides and gripping his daggers.

“Are you betraying us, Lunark? The future and power we’ve promised each other?”

Lunark’s hands were clenched by her sides. “No, I am not; you have only promised yourself power and that is something I have never had faith in.” She breathed out, lifting her head and meeting him eye to eye. “Lord Muzaka, where is he? What have you done to him?”

At this, Maduke blinked and then slowly, a wide, perverse grin took shape on his face. He looked so completely, utterly amused that Ragar wondered if he had suddenly gone insane. Maduke’s face was contorted maniacally as his incisors sharpened and grew. A power began to blaze around him. “So that is what you’re here for. Well, if he’s all you want to see, you’re looking at him.”

“What? What are you—“

They shielded themselves from Maduke’s burst, shockwaves rippling through the air and as he transformed and grew. A towering white wolf stood in his place, in his chest, a bloodstone. “There, do you see him?” He raised his claws to the blood stone. “This is your precious Lord Muzaka...Well, at least a part of him, but I have made up the rest with other life forms. His power runs in my veins now—a much more useful application.”

Lunark’s eyes were wide and she was frozen to the spot. Her face creased with repulsion and disbelief. “No—you can’t mean—“

“He is no more,” Maduke snarled. Then he raised his canine head and laughed triumphantly into the air.

Frankenstein glanced at Ragar. “Is that the stone?” he quietly asked.

Ragar narrowed his eyes at it. “It feels similar, but it is...only a third of the size I remember.”

“Are you remembering incorrectly perhaps?”

“No, I am certain.”

Maduke continued his tirade: “And now, after all our hard work, I  _ am _ the power of our people, and this world will be reborn anew once I wipe the nobles and their little Lukedonia off the face of this planet, and the humans will have no choice but to kneel to their new masters!”

The air seared with darkness. Suddenly, there were spikes driven right through Maduke from the ground. “Oh,  _ what a villain _ . You would not believe how tired that speech is by now.” Dark Spear sang for blood in Frankenstein’s hand. “If you would please”—he rose into the air—“just fucking die.” He slammed darkness down upon him, expansive and relentless.

Maduke leaped up through it, and before anyone could blink, he slashed Frankenstein hard into the ground.

Frankenstein landed on his feat, leaving blackened marks where he touched. He smiled wildly.

Lunark, looking up at Maduke and what she surely thought was their impending doom, finally shook herself awake. “Frankenstein!” she called. “Before I die, I’ll fulfill my end of our deal: the Noblesse is with Edian and Urokai. The last I saw of them was in a base directly South of here. It’s hidden in an underwater cave by the Jeju Volcanic Island.”

Frankenstein, radiating Dark Spear, turned his head to her, and it was as if time had paused in that moment. Finally, he knew. “So you are useful after all.” He smiled his thanks, genuinely. “Ragar.” He turned to him. “Go, as fast as you can. Find Master and keep him safe.” He looked back up at Maduke. “As for me...well, we’ll see.”

Ragar pulled up his mask, making his feet light. “I will return for you.”

“Goodbye, Ragar.”

“ _ I will return for you, Frankenstein. _ ”

Frankenstein leaped into the air.

Ragar disappeared.

* * *

He broke the surface of the water and pulled himself onto the damp floor of the cave. Ragar had lost his cloak somewhere in the ocean. It was utterly dark, but in the distance: a small blurry window of blue light. Quietly and cautiously, he stepped in that direction, sticking close to the walls.

As he neared, the small base set into the cave revealed itself to him and he stepped inside. It was humble and practically unguarded save for a few security cameras Ragar disabled as he came across them. He could almost describe the place as cozy with only a few hallways and one main staircase that spiralled down only one more level, calm and quiet, shielded from the rest of the world by the ocean.

He walked until he came across doors that were larger and more decorated than the rest. The metal was pressed with a figure with flowing hair and in a flowing gown, angelic and powerful. It seemed to recognize a noble presence and opened for him with a quiet hiss.

Silently, he stepped inside the blue cast of the room. He looked up.

In suspended slumber in the fluids of the tank, body bare and clear mask over his nose and mouth, was Sir Raizel.

Ragar marveled at him.

There were footsteps. “So you’ve come here for him…” Urokai leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

From some dark corner behind the tank stepped Edian.

Against one of the side walls, enclosed in the glass of some machine, was a blood stone—the second third.

Ragar readied his daggers. “Release him,” he said.

Urokai summoned Dragus. “I can’t let you take him from me, Ragar.”


	7. Chapter 7

The constrained space of the facility did not make for an easy arena.

A stray blazing white slash from Urokai ripped through the air towards Raizel. It collided with Edian’s hastily summoned rapiers. “Be careful!” she called as if she had any right to act like she was Raizel’s sole protector. She stood poised, guarding him, listening to Urokai’s tired grievances that he hurled futilely towards Ragar as if Ragar were an extension of Raizel, and if Ragar heard, then so must Raizel.

“You think you can just come in here and take him as you please when I’ve been the one watching over him for the past 820 years?” Urokai slammed down, crushing the floor panels.

Ragar, calm and silent, spun tightly and aimed for Urokai’s head. Blade against blade, it was blocked, and they struggled against each other, Ragar pressing hard, the pointed dagger nearing Urokai’s remaining eye.

His fiery red glare widened. “Those daggers, they’re from Frankenstein, aren’t they?” Urokai seethed as he shoved Ragar back.

He stopped skidding and righted himself before he could slam against the wall. “They are,” Ragar said, as prideful as ever, because that purple-black glimmering scorching his hands was a sign of Frankenstein’s regard for him, painfully crafted from blood and soul, and Ragar held the blade up towards Urokai, showing it off like the very peacock that gifted it to him. “Would you like a closer look?” He tugged at his mask with his other hand. “Or are you afraid of losing another eye to Frankenstein’s blade?”

Urokai lunged towards him, extending his guandao, black and gold, the colors of a people he had abandoned for the possession of someone who represented the power of that same people. “I don’t remember you being this infuriating, Ragar,” he growled.

Ragar disappeared and reappeared behind him. “Then you must have a poor memory.” He carved into his back.

Urokai slashed his chest in return.

Ragar quickly lifted off his feet again, leaving the white tiled floor smeared with blood that had been dragged by his heels. “Release Sir Raizel, Urokai. I will not repeat myself again.” He felt the weight of the daggers in his hands, felt it burn and sear his skin as if his hands would fuse to that electric metal forever. He welcomed that feeling, welcomed its invasiveness as it seemed to pierce into his very veins. He welcomed power, and he struck Urokai again, spraying the walls with his blood.

Urokai grunted and swung forcefully, blindly at something he could not see. “Who are you, to tell  _ me  _ let him go?”

Ragar paused in front of Urokai, revealing himself fully only for a moment. “I am Ragar.” He lifted his head high and honorably. “Just Ragar.”

“No.” Urokai raised Dragus blazing with a radiant energy. “You are no one. A nobody, just like  _ him _ , suddenly deciding on your own to stay in Sir Raizel’s house, in Sir Raizel’s company. I had always been the one to visit him, hoping for just even a glance or a nod from him, but  _ then,  _ he suddenly got a couple new toys and it was like I never mattered.” He lowered himself and charged at Ragar, swinging a thundering arc.

Edian leaped up and sharply cut down, dissipating the attack before it could crash into the tank as Ragar dodged. Her eyes tightened as she landed, a long, low anger boiling to the surface as she glared at Urokai who did not seem to notice.

“Sir Raizel was...he was going down the wrong path. You, Ragar, have already been lead astray by Frankenstein, but Sir Raizel will remain here. He does not need to wake; I am keeping him safe.”

“You are keeping him imprisoned.” Ragar slammed Urokai into the wall, cracking it. He was only held back from Urokai’s throat by Dragus’s pole. He spoke low, breath close enough to meet his opponent’s. “You are afraid, Urokai—afraid that if he opens his eyes, the only thing he’ll look at you with is hate for what you’ve done.”

“Shut up.” Urokai bared his fangs and gritted his teeth. “You know nothing.”

“But I am not afraid,” Ragar continued. “Because, as you have yourself admitted, I  _ am _ in Sir Raizel’s company and Sir Raizel’s regard. So I will ask you, Urokai, which one of us is ‘nobody?’”

“Shut up!” Urokai roared and shoved Ragar far back.

Ragar’s light feet met the wall and he propelled himself forward, flying towards Urokai, who met him just as powerfully. The room shook with their collision.

“You don’t know anything!” He screamed as he attacked. The clang of metal against metal was punctuated by the silence of blade against skin. “You don’t know how it feels, Ragar. Eons, I’ve watched him from afar, and then I watched someone else take him, when I have  _ always _ been there. And now, finally, I have him. You don’t know how it feels, Ragar, to love someone.”

Ragar narrowed his eyes, feeling his blood boil and burn at the mindless and crass and dirty accusation. The word ‘love’ was unfit on Urokai’s tongue. Before he could land his next cut, however, something tore through Urokai’s chest from behind.

The long edge of Edian’s rapier glinted with blood all the way to the hilt.

Urokai, stunned and frozen, slowly turned his head. “Edian, what are you…”

Edian looked up straight into Urokai’s wide eye, her own stare determined and honest. “What you have, Urokai, cannot be called love.” She ripped her sword back out of him, and swiftly, she shoved the lever of the machine containing the blood stone all the way up and slammed her hand down on the button next to it with finality.

The machine whirred and the stone glowed brighter and brighter, like a contained sun. Red light erupted into ribbons and penetrated the glass of the tank, wrapping around Raizel, imbuing him with all the powers they contained.

“What are you doing!? He’ll—He’ll wake…”

Edian stood tall, gazing up at Raizel’s form. “I never wanted to keep him like this, Urokai. You may have been using the blood stone to keep him weakened enough to remain in slumber indefinitely, but I’ve been restoring his life force with it.” Her eyes, glimmering and in awe of the red light, spoke of tender beauty, like she had never once gazed up at such an astounding thing as Sir Raizel. “And now...it is done.”

In the slowly dying light, Ragar was a phantom, and he was suddenly very, very close. His blade sunk into the soft tissue of Urokai’s remaining eye.

Blood was warm against his hand, and Urokai could no longer gaze upon that which he desired.

The glass of the tank shattered and fell in glittering waterfalls as the fluids flooded the floor. Slowly opening his eyes, Raizel descended, as softly as angel wings, clothing himself in flickers of manifested fabric, black and white and gold. “Edian Drosia…” he said, commanding attention and causing ripples in the liquid as he turned around. “You are forgiven.”

Edian stared at him with all the reverence and gratitude anyone could muster. Her face broke into a bittersweet smile that could barely contain her tears, but momentously, miraculously, she reigned herself in with a breath and bowed low, hand across her chest. “Thank you, Sir.”

Ragar, likewise, stepped back from Urokai as Raizel approached them. He too bowed, dagger to his chest. Raizel acknowledged him with a nod.

“Sir...Sir Raizel?” Urokai whimpered pathetically, facing in his direction but not seeing him.

Urokai could not see that what Raizel looked at him with was not hate nor contempt nor anger. He was only very, very sad.

Tenderly, Raizel raised his hand to Urokai’s face, brushing his thumb across the blood spilling from his eye and down his cheek. It was a comforting motion. “Urokai Agvain,” Raizel said softly and soothingly in a tragic sort of way. “I sentence you to forced eternal sleep.” It was nearly a whisper.

Urokai was taken in a spiral of blood, body disappearing and none the wiser to Raizel’s regard of him. He was gone.

Raizel’s silence was melancholic. The liquid rippled at his feet as his powers settled and retreated. Then, suddenly, he looked up, his silhouette taking on a stiff alertness. His eyes, glowing red, widened, and a panic quietly sank into his features. “Something has happened with Frankenstein,” he stated.

Ragar stepped forward and nodded respectfully and gravely. “I will take you to him.”

* * *

“Why is he—!” Dorant leaped out of the way as wave of darkness crested high and then crashed down. At the center of the churning, rippling darkness was Frankenstein, brimming with power, skin as black as space and hair glowing a constantly shifting purple-violet, whipping and fluttering with each shockwave. It took on the appearance of plasma.

Maduke was nowhere to be seen.

“What has happened?” Ragar asked as he appeared by Lunark, though he could take a guess.

“He...he killed Maduke…” Lunark uttered, like those words were fantastical and like this surely was not reality. “Dorant and Garda showed up shortly afterwards, and we’ve been trying to restrain him, but we can’t...we can’t  _ touch  _ him. He won’t respond to any of us.”

The landscape was constantly awash with the radiating darkness. It was no attack; that was too personal. Dark Spear simply existed and extended over anything and everything. It was, simply, a state of being.

Frankenstein’s arms were parted grandly as if accepting an embrace, and he looked up with wide, luminescent eyes and a sharpened, awful grin both tragic and horrifying. He looked at the sky like he belonged up there, like it was both heaven and home. His dark form suddenly rocketed high, vanishing the blackness over the land and extending an arm upwards, reaching out with opportunistic claws. There was nothing in the air, but it looked as if he wanted to grasp the very sky for himself and hold it in his palm to marvel at the small world he would destroy.

Raizel disappeared from Ragar’s side, and he too was in the sky, hurtling towards Frankenstein in a bright red blaze, amorphous wings unfurling from his back and flickering over his path. They collided with fireworks, a blossom of bright violence against the careless stars.

Raizel grasped at Frankenstein, and with great force, crushed him to the ground. They split the air going down like meteors, and the earth broke spectacularly in every direction. A dangerous stillness overcame them, Raizel pressing downward against Frankenstein’s sternum with his arm, his own eyes wide and worried and radiating with his blood colored powers.  _ “Frankenstein _ ,” Raizel called, summoning his authority as both the Noblesse and as his bonded and master. He exuded power, but watching closely, Ragar had never seen him so afraid.

The strange, contorted smile on Frankenstein’s face slowly fell away into something subdued and on the verge of realization—of waking up. His eyes returned to their blue hue and his hair settled onto the ground, taking on a more solid physical form as their color returned as well. “Mas...ter…?” he whispered, voice cracking.

Dark Spear withdrew.

Raizel sighed with heavy relief, his wings dissipating.

Frankenstein’s expression broke, and his face creased in pained, tragic ways. He covered his eyes with a hand, turning his head to the side, in the dirt, ashamed. “I see you for the first time in 820 years, and I can’t even receive you properly…” His voice sounded on the verge of sobbing.

Raizel was watching him, but Frankenstein did not want to be watched. He backed away, lifting himself off of Frankenstein, and then settled to kneel on the ground by his side. He gazed off into the distance, patient, understanding, and gentle.

Ragar approached, footsteps audible and friendly. He took a spot next to Raizel and Frankenstein and too kneeled on the ground. After a short while, he said, “Let us go home.”

* * *

When the proverbial dust cleared, and everyone had caught up with each other and were on the same page—Garda killed the Ninth, Edian left for Lukedonia, Lunark and the other werewolves got to the business of discussing their lack of leadership, and Raizel went through welcoming introductions—Frankenstein gracefully prepared and poured tea as if there was nothing in the world that had ever gone wrong, as if 820 years had not passed and he was just continuing right from where they had left off in that room in that Lukedonian mansion.

But neither Ragar nor Raizel missed the slight tremor that ran through Frankenstein’s hand when he set the cup down. He retreated quickly, tucking that hand close to himself behind his back as he straightened again.

“Frankenstein…” Raizel began.

“Master, please, excuse me.” Frankenstein bowed deeply and swiftly turned on his heel and left, disappearing down the hallway.

Ragar got up from his seat. “I will go after him,” he informed Raizel.

Raizel nodded. “Thank you.”

Ragar found him deep underground in the empty room reserved especially to stow Frankenstein away from everyone and everything when he was dealing with Dark Spear. His hands were blackened and clawed, and he was leaning one arm against the wall, the other pried open his mouth. He was bent over, shoving fingers down into his throat trying to force himself to vomit. Frankenstein heaved and choked and spat on the floor. His chin was wet with sluggish spit.

Ragar was swiftly by his side, yanking that invasive hand away. “What are you doing?”

Frankenstein, shaken, looked up at him in a confused daze. “I...I want him  _ out _ .”

“What?” Ragar furrowed his brows in serious concern.

Frankenstein buckled over laughing wildly. He would have fallen to the soiled floor had Ragar not continued to hold his arm. “Do you want to know why it hurts so fucking much every time I consume a soul?” He was trembling. “I tear apart the body first, and then Dark Spear tears apart the soul, but—funny thing—souls don’t want to be torn apart, so they fight back. It’s all for nothing though; Dark Spear always gets them in the end. There’s just nowhere else to go.” He laughed brokenly and even dared to rest his tired head against Ragar’s shoulder, covering his eyes. “Can you fucking believe…? The first time Master sees me, and he… He sees me like  _ that  _ and has to use his powers just to bring me back.” His voice cracked. “It’s—it’s so funny, isn’t it?” He chuckled awfully, nails against board.

Ragar remained silent. At that moment, nothing seemed appropriate to say, but he kept his hold on Frankenstein’s lowered wrist.

They stood like that, saying nothing, the sound of Frankenstein’s haggard breathing being the only sound between them. Then, quietly, honestly, Frankenstein confessed, “I’m afraid, Ragar. That I’ll do something terrible. And you know what? I’ll be awake the entire time it happens.” He swallowed.

“Frankenstein.” Ragar’s voice was deep and firm, and he stood as tall and solid as mountains they had scaled and raised a hand to Frankenstein’s back as warm as the sun-drenched sand of deserts they had traveled together a long time ago when scouring the globe. “If it comes to that, I will stop you.”

“You don’t know that, Ragar, you don’t know…”

Ragar patted Frankenstein’s back once and told a story he hoped would comfort him. “In Lukedonia, 830 years ago, Sir Raizel had made a request of me to stay by your side should anything happen. I swore that I would, and I have yet to break that promise, and I do not plan on breaking it.”

Frankenstein chuckled and Ragar felt a dampness on his shoulder where Frankenstein rested his eyes. “You really are...unbelievable,” he murmured.

  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Ragar found him standing on the sunny rooftop of one of the school buildings, gazing down at his students scurrying across campus to and from class. The wind blew through his hair, and Shinwoo’s sharp eyes spotted him from the grass field. He waved, and Frankenstein waved back. Not turning around, Frankenstein, with a fondness, said to Ragar, “Master is in math class now. I think it’s his least favorite subject.” He smiled amicably then suddenly chuckled at nothing, looking down. “I can’t believe I forgot to give him lunch money the first day, but some nice students offered to buy him ramen. He said he liked it.” Frankenstein sighed. “I’m glad...I’m glad he likes it.”

Ragar gazed over the school as well. Then, he sat down, legs hanging over the edge of the building. He looked up at Frankenstein expectantly.

Frankenstein nodded at him, getting the message, and sat down next to him. They stayed like that, in silence, for a while.

The clouds overhead passed them by.

Softly, Frankenstein said, “To you, Ragar, I’m always grateful.”

* * *

The jet was dumped out of the sky as they leaped out, plummeting towards Lukedonia but landing gracefully, almost silent.

Frankenstein looked up. “It’s...been a while.”

“Indeed, it has,” Ragar said.

“Where should we go first, Master?”

“To the house. There is something I must retrieve.”

In the depths of the mansion, beyond the towering stone statues and the great gate of the shrine, was half of Ragnarok, and Raizel bid it to his hand.

From it bloomed the previous Lord’s mirage, his white robes and long hair fluttering. He smiled mysteriously down at them.

Ragar gazed up at him, taking in a sight as graceful and wise as he remembered.

_ “Cadis Etrama di Raizel, so we did not meet before I entered eternal sleep, but even like this, I still wanted to see you. If you are here, that must mean that peacock and Ragar found you.” _

Frankenstein did not appear amused by this comment.

_ “They’re an amusing duo, aren’t they? But I knew they would find you eventually. They’re both hard headed like that. I regret having to enter eternal sleep without finding your whereabouts, but I suppose what is important is that you are here now. Cadis Etrama di Raizel, I am glad you are safe.”  _ And before he flickered away, he added,  _ “Stay close, you three; you will need each other.” _

Silence again consumed the lonely space.

Raizel looked at the sword. “I suppose...I will have to return this.”

* * *

Unceremoniously, Ragar shoved open the great, grand doors of the throne room, and the three of them stepped inside. It filled him with nostalgia, being here again, and he half expected to see the old Lord sitting in the throne, smiling that wise, mysterious smile and saying to him,  _ “Welcome back from your trip. Did you have fun, Ragar? Did you bring any souvenirs for your Lord?” _

“You’re—!” Gejutel quickly quieted his heartstopping surprise and bowed with the proper graces. “Cadis Etrama di Raizel...You have returned.”

On the throne high above them and flanked by those enormous, purely decorative and vanity fuelled blue gems, lounged Raskreia, her head tilted and resting against her knuckles. “So you finally show yourself,” she said. “Edian Drosia has informed me of what has happened to you. Did you have a nice nap?” She straightened and set both her arms on the armrests, leaning back and uncrossing her legs. In that moment, she looked, immovably, like the prideful lord of a prideful people. “What business do you have before me?” she inquired, like Raizel was just another one of her subjects, like his return and his existence were impersonal things, and to her, they ultimately were.

Raizel raised his hand and summoned forth Ragnarok.

Raskreia’s eyes widened and she stood up from her seat.

“I have come to return what is rightfully yours,” Raizel said. The sword drifted upwards.

Raskreia held out her hand and received it, completing her soul weapon. She lowered it, slicing the air with its atom-sharp edge. “So my father left this for you…”

“He had left me a message. I have received the message. The sword is yours,  _ Lord. _ ”

“I see…” She tilted the blade, watching it catch the light, then vanished it, storing it in her soul. “Gejutel, summon the clan leaders. I have a decree to make. Cadis Etrama di Raizel, you are to hear this as well.”

Shortly, the clan leaders arrived, including the ones recovered, Tradio and Drosia. They respectfully lined up on either side of the carpet, though Edian spared a timid, heartfelt glance at Raizel. They awaited their Lord’s word.

Raskreia stood tall in front of her throne, looking down at Raizel, flanked by Frankenstein and Ragar, with steely red eyes. “Cadis Etrama di Raizel, I thank you for returning Ragnarok’s other half to me. Consider what I am about to do as a favor, because I do not wish to owe you anything.” Her clear, commanding voice echoed against the walls. “As of this day, Cadis Etrama di Raizel is relieved of his duties as the Noblesse, and there will be no successors. The position of ‘the Noblesse’ is abolished.” She turned curtly, her cloak swaying. “You are dismissed.”

A stunned silence was followed by hushed chatter between the clan leaders.

“What? You can’t be ser—“

“Are you questioning the decision of our Lord?”

“But why…”

“Is this legal?”

Karias furrowed his brows and scratched his cheek in consideration. “That’s all well and good, but can we have an explanation, Sis?”

“Karias!” Rozaria looked as if she was going to strangle him.

Raskreia sighed, exasperated but almost endeared at the bunch. “The previous Lord entered his eternal slumber with the hopes of setting in motion great changes to a way of life he thought burdensome, tired, and stagnant. This is the start of those changes,” she elaborated. “I have seen the ways the humans conduct themselves, and like them, we must adapt. The world will not wait for us.” Her expression softened, and she looked at Raizel once again. “Cadis Etrama di Raizel, you are free to go home, wherever that may be.”

Raizel looked up at her. “Thank you, Lord.” He bowed.

“‘Raskreia,’ that is my name, Raizel. Do not forget it like you have my father’s.”

* * *

Ragar, always alert and attentive, would hear them sometimes, in either Sir Raizel’s room or Frankenstein’s room. It would be mostly Frankenstein who would be vocal, but his dialogue made it clear with whom he was randezvousing late at night. There was a phrase Ragar had read somewhere in a play—Shakespeare, he remembered—‘making the beast with two backs.’ Sometimes, he found himself wondering if that beast could possibly have three. He had picked up well enough during his centuries among the humans how people proceeded with such activities. It would be an educational experience, he thought.

It was another one of those nights in which Frankenstein and Raizel were with each other in their private room. They emerged a couple hours later, and Ragar knew they would emerge, so he had taken it upon himself to make cookies (he had learned the recipe from Seira).

He presented them on two small plates set on the living room coffee table. Frankenstein, looking pleasantly surprised and a little blushed and gooey from his and his master’s previous activities, graciously picked one and took a bite.

His eyes widened, and slowly, he set the half eaten cookie on the table. “These are  _ salty _ ,” Frankenstein said.

Ragar’s eyes too widened. He tugged up his mask.

“Ragar…” Frankenstein said low and dangerous, turning to him with a stiff smile. “The salt is always on the right, the sugar on the left.”

Ragar, face as stoic as ever but feeling impossibly embarrassed, assured that, “I will...remember that in the future.”

The next morning, Ragar found the jar of salt and the jar of sugar labeled boldly with Lukedonian letters.

For a while, life was peaceful.

* * *

For old time’s sake, they had sparred and were now in the lab, Frankenstein taking care to bandage Ragar’s hands, like always.

Raizel was seated in a cushioned chair, enjoying his fresh and correctly made cookies.

Frankenstein smiled gently down at Ragar’s hands as he held them. “I have requested Master’s assistance in something.” He looked over at Raizel.

Raizel nodded. He stood up and held out his hand. In a red glow, he summoned twin daggers, black and edged with stunning red. They drifted over to Ragar.

Frankenstein let go of his hands, and in silent honor and renewed awe, Ragar reached out to accept the pair of blades. He looked between Raizel and Frankenstein, asking questions only with his eyes as he had been stunned into wordlessness.

Frankenstein, easily reading his expression, smiled with amusement. “They’re noble based instead of Dark Spear based, so perhaps they’ll be more compatible with you. In essence, I had used the spare bloodstones we had to store only enough of Dark Spear so that Master could make a contract with them. There isn’t enough Dark Spear in there to even hurt, much less try to consume you, but the daggers are bonded to Master now, and as such, have access to a branch of Master’s powers. They can even be summoned and dismissed like a normal soul weapon, as Master has demonstrated. I’ve tried it myself as well, and it works.” He nodded at Ragar. “Give it a go.”

Ragar nodded back and looked down at the long, elegant curves of the daggers, feeling the comforting weight of them in his hands. He concentrated on them and himself, summoning his noble presence, curling it around them, accepting them and inviting them into the deepest and most intimate parts of himself—his soul. The daggers luminesced; they flickered; they glowed...They stopped. They remained weights in his hands.

Frankenstein blinked. “It...didn’t work?”

Ragar stared down at them, considerate and thinking. “These are bonded to Sir Raizel. I do not have his same authority. You are Sir Raizel’s bonded, and neither do I have yours.”

“A soul weapon can only be wielded by those connected through blood and soul.” Frankenstein held his fingers up to his chin and tilted his head. Then, he brightened, looking like he had encountered a swell realization. “Well then, here’s an idea.” He pulled up his sleeve and held out his hand, palm and wrist facing up. “Ragar, make a contract with me,” he said.

Ragar could only stare at Frankenstein’s exposed and offered skin. He suddenly did not know how to hold himself and felt a nerve wracking heat pressing on his face. He was frozen to the spot, and in an instant, it seemed as if all his quickness left him and he was very, very slow.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Frankenstein said, waiting.

“I…” Ragar scrambled to find his words again. He did not realize that he was clenching those gifted daggers into tight fists until he reached up to tug at his mask. “I would like some time to consider this…”

Frankenstein looked at him curiously but did not seem impatient or hurt or rejected. “Of course.” He lowered his arm and pulled down his sleeve. He smiled, somehow embodying the very notion of confidence and comfort into himself and towards Ragar. “But keep the daggers. They’re yours.”

Ragar thanked both Frankenstein and Raizel, feeling like he was in a dream.

* * *

Sir Raizel was quick to find a group of friends at school, and those friends made it a habit to spend time in Frankenstein’s home, bringing their own snacks of numerous colors and drinks of numerous sugary concoctions. Frankenstein would welcome them with a smile, but Ragar knew how the wrappers and the crumbs grated his nerves. He would mutter to himself and cross his arms and impatiently tap his foot on the floor. But Ragar also knew that he appreciated the school children and all the mundane joy they would bring to his master immensely.

“Chairman, you lost! Prepare your forehead!” Shinwoo pointed a straight and accusing finger at him.

“Haha…” With that commercial Chairman Lee smile, Frankenstein, with as little humiliation as he could muster, parted his hair.

The loud aggressive thwack of Shinwoo’s fingers flicking Frankenstein’s forehead caused the other kids to flinch.

“Ahahaha…” A red mark bloomed on his head. His hair fell over his face again.

Suddenly, a loud bang came from Seira’s direction. She was standing to the side, a hand behind her back. Ragar spotted the pan she held, a hole punched right through it. Curious, she had flicked the bottom of the pan, but before the punched out metal could rocket upwards and chip Frankenstein’s roof, Ragar had caught it and returned to his position, too fast for the children to see.

Frankenstein sighed, seeming to deflate at the raucous activity and the dirtying floor and couch and table, but there was a smile behind that sigh, because, ultimately, Frankenstein was a loving person, and he loved his master, and he loved the children, and he loved…

Ragar pulled up his mask. His eyes trained thoughtfully on Frankenstein, who seemed to beam and glimmer best when he was in the well received company of others. Perhaps he had a tongue and he had a bite, but tirelessly, he reached and yearned and loved. That was his power, not Dark Spear, because even Dark Spear rested within his love for humanity.

Ragar wondered and wondered and thought and thought, could he really have this man?

He watched the proceedings of the night in comfortable silence.

* * *

The car rumbled comfortably on the dark road, and Ragar felt its mechanical pur in his hands on the wheel. A mellow, rhythmic hip hop was playing on the radio. He glanced up at the rearview mirror.

In the backseat were Raizel and Frankenstein. Frankenstein had leaned in close, and he whispered intimacies to his master. Raizel tilted his head, and Frankenstein pressed his lips to that exposed neck. Their lips eventually found each other.

Ragar hooked his fingers into his mask, looking back at the road. The back of his fingers brushed against his own lips. He could hear the two in the back sigh and swallow. He wondered how it would feel. He wondered about a lot of things.

They drove on into the young night.

* * *

“Boss, you should see this.” The grid of three by three monitors all synchronized to form one image. At the center, the globe, and annotated on the outside, live locations of bodies floating well above the atmosphere.

“What am I looking at?”

“Union satellites.” Toa swiveled around in his chair. “Weapons, positioned to attack at any time—major cities: New York, San Francisco, Beijing, Seoul, Paris.” He turned back to the computer. “Those werewolves and I have been keeping in touch. Apparently, they’ve communicated with the Third, and he’s decided to defect. This is what we’ve found, but… I don’t know how we’d stop them.” He leaned back in a huff causing his seat to squeak and rock. “Hah! It’s not like we can just fly out into space to each satellite and disable them ourselves.”

There was a pause.

“We can,” Raizel stated.

“What? Boss, you got a rocket or something?”

“I can,” Raizel corrected.

Frankenstein almost jumped. “Master, your life—“

“I have been greatly restored.” Raizel looked up at the screens. “Would this task require combat?”

“Unless the satellites are activated or someone tries to stop us, no. It’s not like those things can attack you on their own,” Tao informed him.

“Then I will only need flight, and that will require negligible strength.”

“But...it’s space,” Tao reminded him. “Y’know, a vacuum, radiation, the sun, space debris, no air—“

“Will a tight force field suffice?”

“I mean—I guess for some of the stuff, but what about breathing?”

“Air will not be a concern for me.”

Tao turned around again, his fingers steepled in front of his chest, his elbows resting on the armrests. He stared up, eyebrows raised high into his bangs. “Are we really going to do this?”

Raizel smiled as confidently and proudly as ever, even if he maintained a characteristic mildness to his expression. “We are,” he said.

* * *

“Alright, satellite number one, here we come!” Tao chanted into the headset, punching the air with his fist. “Watch, we’re gonna save the world, and they’re not even going to notice.” He chuckled to himself.

It was obvious Frankenstein did not share Tao’s casual enthusiasm from the pensive look on his face and nervous fingers holding his chin.

Ragar placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Frankenstein let him.

“Raizel, are you in position?”

His voice read optimistically clearly over the speakers. “I am.”

“Then liftoff in three...two...one!”

The blip on one of the monitors rocketed vertically upwards.

Tao leaned forward. “Alright, alright...Good, good...Still on target.”

After a few moments of tense silence, Raizel’s voice crackled to them. “I see it.”

The largest grin overtook Tao’s face. “Fan-fucking-tactic—I mean...cool. Tell me when you’ve landed.”

“I have landed.”

“Now, you see those big disks? They’re radio transmitters. That’s how the satellite communicates. You just gotta destroy them.”

“Done,” Raizel said almost immediately.

“Oh, wow, okay, that was fast. While you’re up there, you might as well get the solar panels too.”

“Tao, don’t push him,” Frankenstein warned.

“Done.”

“Come back to Earth, ‘Space Man!’”

They greeted him at the door when he arrived.

Tao held out an enthusiastic thumbs up straight at Raizel. “Excellent performance! Ten out of ten!”

There was a gentle pride to Raizel’s expression. Then, his cheeks were dusted pink, and he turned his head shyly away.

“Master...are you alright?”

Honestly, Raizel nodded, reassuring.

“He’s a space maaaan; a man, in spaaaace!” Tao sang.

This only caused Raizel to blush further.

That was how it began. Weekdays, Raizel dutifully went to his classes. Weekends, Frankenstein would jet him out to the correct location and watch him take to the sky beyond skies and then watch him descend shortly after. Ragar stayed to guard the house, the base of operations.

* * *

One night, a couple weeks later, Raizel opened the door and returned alone. “Frankenstein is refueling the plane,” he told Ragar.

“Sir Raizel...May I speak with you?”

Raizel nodded at him, regally accepting. Even without his authoritative position or title, he always maintained the air of graceful nobility, and Ragar admired him for it.

They took their seats on the sofas across from each other. Ragar had already prepared tea he knew Raizel liked.

He laced his fingers over his knee, crossing his legs. “I have given it much thought, Sir Raizel…” Ragar began. “But I do not understand it, how Frankenstein can offer himself so freely, as if he is giving up his soul on a mere whim.” He lowered his eyes and creased his brows. “It is...confounding.”

Raizel smiled at him with momentous and sincere understanding, and again, Ragar felt the weight of his high regard. “Would you like to know how Frankenstein offered his soul to me?” He picked up the filled teacup, almost cradling it in his hands like a precious thing.

Ragar nodded and watched.

Raizel sipped and told a comforting story: “He did not say a word about it. He had simply slipped his blood into my tea, thinking that perhaps I would not notice.” An endearing, nostalgia filled expression settled onto his face at the memory. “He looked so surprised when I turned around and asked if he consented to the contract.”

Ragar was astounded. 

Raizel continued. “But had I not said anything, had we not made the contract, he would have still stayed by my side.” The steam rose and curled and caressed his face. “Frankenstein does not need much fanfare when offering himself, because in his mind, you already have him, and you have had him for a long time now, Ragar.” Raizel sipped again. “That he has even spoken to you about it...I am jealous,” he said with unexpected but appreciated playfulness. Lowering his cup, he smiled at Ragar again, and it felt like the soothing evening breeze. “You have been with him for even longer than I have because of my slumber. I believe you know what is right for both of you.”

“Sir Raizel…” Ragar uttered, unsure how else to express all his quiet and humble amazement and thanks to him.

“As he said, ‘whenever you’re ready.’”

They enjoyed tea in silence.

Half an hour later, the door clicked open, and Frankenstein stepped in.

Ragar stood up and faced him. “Frankenstein,” he called, quiet but determined and unshaken.

Frankenstein looked at him.

“I am ready,” Ragar said.

Frankenstein smiled. Wordlessly, he stepped closer, pulled up his sleeve, and extended his arm.

Wordlessly, Ragar took that wrist into his own hand and pulled down his mask fully. He bent down as if to place a kiss on a princess’s hand—the ones he’d seen in those fairytale movies, because this felt like a fairytale—and his lips and breath brushed against Frankenstein’s smooth skin. He opened his mouth. He sank his fangs into him.

The metallic taste of blood, warm and welcoming, ran over his tongue and down his throat. Ragar’s lidded eyes glowed with his crimson nobility, and he felt Frankenstein’s being swell and surge with him, pressing to his own old soul. He made sure to lick the blood clean off of Frankenstein’s wrist, because he knew Frankenstien did not like messes. Ragar straightened and took a breath. “Frankenstein,” he said, calling to the essence of his being. Red particles glimmered and flickered in and out of existence around them.  _ “We have entered a contract of the soul, bound by blood. Do you consent?” _

Frankenstein smiled as easily and as stunning as ever. He was the sun; he glowed with himself. Dramatically, he swept into a smooth low bow, golden hair falling forward.  _ “Yes, my friend.” _

They came together. Ragar once again found himself at the foot of that statue four centuries ago, looking up at the construction and celebration of the human form. It gazed far, far away, beyond him, and Ragar was dwarfed by it, by the warmth of Frankenstein’s soul, by its generous suffering, by its even more generous hope.

There existed that timeless and confounding physical conundrum: everyone was always alone. They experienced their own world through their own mind. Happiness was their happiness, and suffering was their suffering. It was all opaque and impenetrable to those who did not share the same body and mind: the outside.

But now, Ragar realized, they were not alone. They shared; they fused; they existed within each other. In the glimmer of the contract, Ragar could not tell if the breath he was taking was his own or Frankenstein’s.

Frankenstein coughed into a fist. He had since straightened and pulled down his sleeve. “Maybe you’d like to try the daggers now.”

Ragar blinked, only now realizing that he had been staring for a long while. His naked face warmed, and he quickly pulled up his mask again. “Yes...of course,” he said, trying to compose himself. He skillfully drew both daggers from their sheathes on the holster he always wore on his hips. Ragar breathed, and they glowed. Their presence and ultimately Raizel and Frankenstein’s presence whispered against him. He opened himself up, and they accepted him. The daggers vanished into the soul space between the three of them.

Frankenstein smiled, perking up. “Well, look at that, a success.”

“Indeed,” Ragar agreed, but it felt like such a minuscule thing next to the enormity of a contract and of Frankenstein himself.

The phone vibrating in Ragar’s jacket pocket brought him out of his reverie. He checked the screen.

A message from Sir Raizel: 

|| Congratulations ^-^ ||

He looked over at him happily sipping his tea.


	9. Chapter 9

Even a week later, Ragar was still feeling the afterglow of the contract. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at his hands and summoning and dismissing the new daggers curiously, like it was a novelty. It had been a while since he was last able to do such a thing. The blades, as dark as night and as red as passion, carried Raizel and Frankenstein’s profound regard. He was mesmerized.

“Having fun?”

Somehow, Frankenstein had managed to sneak up on him, and Ragar jolted upright, vanishing the weapon. He had gotten so used to feeling Frankenstein, understanding his thoughts and desires, that he hadn’t noticed his physical distance from him.

Frankenstein smiled, amused. Clearly, he knew contracts and recognized Ragar’s symptoms.

Ragar stared back, face placid and revealing nothing, but he had noticed that Frankenstein’s presence made him flutter on the inside. It made him flustered, and he would watch Frankenstein and wonder if he would like to do those things the happy couples in commercials and TV shows did. They watched movies in the theater, went ice skating, ate cotton candy at amusement parks, and drank coffee at cafes, Ragar knew, but he maintained his usual calm, at least in appearance. Ragar was a specialist in hiding himself.

“I need to attend a school board meeting this afternoon, but Master insists on still going through with destroying the last satellite right now—the Beijing one. Will you accompany him there in my place?”

Ragar stood up, looked at Frankenstein seriously, and nodded.

“Takeo will go as well”—

Ragar brightened; he liked the man’s style.

—“and he’ll fly the jet, but it would comfort me if you went as well.”

“I will make certain that they return safely.”

Frankenstein smiled, grateful and charming to a fault. “Thank you, Ragar,” he said.

Ragar liked hearing that, each and every time.

* * *

Frankenstein met Crombel in a remote location at the edges of the city—an underground bunker with a stone throne. “I thought it was strange that there have been no traces of the First. It seems you have gotten to him before I could,” he said.

Crombel held himself tall and powerfully. “He was only a fool, but you, F, are not.” He extended an aged hand. “Join me, my master, and we can be gods of the new world.”

Frankenstein stared on in unamused disbelief that was somehow still entirely predictable. “What kind of godforsaken absurdity is that?” he said.

“I will be willing to forgive you, F, for the actions you have taken against me, if you will align with progress.”

“I don’t want the forgiveness of someone the likes of you. Frankly, it gives me chills.” Frankenstein swept his hand and Dark Spear hissed to life and form. “But here’s what I am going to do.” He pointed the spear forward. “As it stands, you’re the last of the Union Elders I have to deal with. Perhaps this deserves congratulations, but I will end your madness now.”

Crombel’s form flickered with bright purple and darkness as well. He stepped with corrosion and breathed with rot. “What a shame… You could have sat on the same throne as I, but out of respect, I will show you god’s form before you die.” The walls of the bunker rumbled and power erupted from Crombel, darkness tore through the air and the walls and the ground. The indifferent blue sky looked down upon them as earth was moved and carved into a crater. At the center was a beast of dark purple and red. The last third of the bloodstone was in Crombel’s chest.

Frankenstein blazed in darkness, the edges of his space-black form shifting and glowing with eyesearing violet. For a moment, his eyes were wide; for a moment, he was frozen. He was beyond disgusted. “An imitation…? So you have made use of that power as well…” Frankenstein snarled. He bore his fangs, feeling himself boil at the further calamity of taken and trapped souls. Dark Spear was a disaster in itself, but here was another one of similar nature with the audacity to face him, created on the haughty whim of a madman who wanted to ascend himself, ascend all the way to nothing that made any sense.

Crombel’s voice boomed. “This is no imitation; it is progress.”

Frankenstein had had enough of the nonsense. He rocketed through the air.

* * *

Air travel purred constantly and pleasantly. Ragar was sitting across from Raizel in the cozy private jet. He reached forward to pour him tea. “Sir Raizel,” he began. “Do you enjoy my company?”

“Very much,” Raizel said as he took the teacup.

Ragar nodded, feeling a little foolish for asking such a question in the first place, but he continued. “I have bonded with Frankenstein, but I do not wish to be an intrusion upon what you have with him.”

Raizel blinked at him like he was suddenly very strange. “Whom Frankenstein bonds with is completely of his own will; I should not be a concern when making such a decision, but if it will ease you, Ragar, I am very pleased that he has chosen to bond with you.” He sipped his tea, still steaming and crossed his legs. “I thought I had made this clear.”

Ragar felt a little embarrassed. “My apologies. I have just been feeling a bit…”

Raizel set his cup down and leaned forward, dipping into a hushed tone. “Does it not feel wonderful, Ragar, being bonded?”

Ragar looked at Raizel like he was the wisest being on or off Earth. “It does...It is like...completion.”

Raizel nodded.

They sat in silence as cities and the sea passed under them. Ragar took to looking out the window and down at the world that turned by. Then, he suddenly realized, “Today is Sunday. School meetings do not take place on Sunday.”

* * *

The ground crumbled; the earth trembled; the light of the sky warped and waved.

“You are flawed! How can you possibly stand up to me?” Crombel crashed heavily. “That power is unstable!”

“You call me master, you kneel at my feet, you bleed and tremble before me, and yet you call yourself a god?” Frankenstein descended, his eyes glowing white like hot stars in his cold, dark form. He spoke with multitudes  _ “We are not unstable; we are alive. You, Crombel, are nothing more than a simple and dead beast, not even fit to be called an imitation.”  _ A crescent moon grin.  _ “But perhaps you will make a nice sacrifice.” _

And a sacrifice he was made, paid in a torn body and a torn soul. Dark Spear sang and rejoiced their welcome. They swallowed him with gleeful violence along with all the other souls coiled within him that hated him and loved him just as much.

Slowly, silently, Frankenstein craned his neck to look up at the ever blue sky with wisened, blinded eyes. They were more complete than ever.

* * *

Raizel descended from the sky in a red beam. He looked at Ragar, and Ragar looked at him back. They nodded at each other in simultaneous and mutual understanding.

“Good job!” Tao’s voice flickered over their earpieces. “That’s all of them! World saved!”

“Tao,” Raizel said seriously. “You and the others are closest to Frankenstein right now. Go to him; we will be on our way.”

“Huh? Did something happen?”

Ragar looked within himself, his expression increasingly concerned as he reached down their young bond, attempting communication with Frankenstein only to receive ominous silence in return as Frankenstein seemed to grow larger and larger and colder and colder. “I am afraid so,” he said. “He was not...at a school meeting.”

* * *

Frankenstein had always been confounding. When Ragar first met him on Lukedonia’s cliff side so very long ago, he carried the power and presence of monsters. He sparked with venom and malice and hate. He hunted nobles and ate them up like the boogeyman of children’s stories that lurked in the darkness of the forest, stalking unwitting prey. But then, Frankenstein told him and Gejutel that it was the clan leaders who were the root of the problem—the mutants. He, in monstrous form, called  _ them _ monsters; Frankenstein was a mirror, reflecting the sins of their people back at them. He had come to Lukedonia for noble reasons and was as noble as the best of them. Ragar realized this, and he admired Frankenstein for it.

When Urokai raised the pendant of a murdered child, and Frankenstein lost himself to grief, it was, at that moment, the most terrifying thing Ragar had seen so far in his life. He did not realize at the time that that mindless, raging beast was only in its infancy. As Frankenstein grew, so did Dark Spear; it was mutual, symbiotic, love.

What stood with its back to them and gazing up at the silent sky was something much greater and grander than that simple monster from long ago. They had grown up. They knew how to speak and think and act. They knew how to fly into the air and gaze down upon them with blind wonder. In those white-violet eyes, they were so very small compared to Dark Spear’s rising and cresting multitudes. His face had no hint of anger or malice or contempt. They had matured into indifference. His eyes looked at them with the same gentle and destructive curiosity as a child fascinated with ants as they crushed those tiny critters in between careless fingers, utterly innocent and unaffected that something so very small had died.

His sparking, dark hand extended to the sky. Black bloomed in the expansive blue.

Regis stepped back. “The sky’s turning black!”

_ “That’s not the sky—” _

Raizel only just managed to throw a forcefield above them as that entire darkness crashed down upon them. They were spears, so clustered and dense and many that they had blocked out the sky, and there were more and more, ceaseless.

Raizel’s wings unfurled. His face creased with effort, and each impact from every spear shook them.

The rain stopped. In the clearing, Frankenstein’s body flickered and phased. His hair snapped with power, a violet plasma. His face smiled at them tenderly.

Ragar summoned his daggers and looked at Raizel. “What do we do?”

Raizel pulled and reached and ached in the bond towards Frankenstein, and Ragar could sense this in their shared connection. They, both with the honor of being Frankenstein’s bonded, called out to him and pleaded with him, but it all seemed to go unheard. “I...don’t know…” Raizel uttered, looking hopelessly lost. Fear chilled his core.

Ragar gripped his daggers tight and looked at Frankenstein. He darted out under Raizel’s shield with blinding speed he never before summoned. Frankenstein grew in his vision as he neared and neared, and it seemed like he was nearing forever but never reaching him. Almost casually, he was deflected with a hand, and then again and again. Frankenstein remained untouched and unmoved.

Ragar was fast enough to break sound and vision, searing the air with his speed, but whenever he neared Frankenstein, it felt as if he became very, very slow.

* * *

A few years ago, Ragar found himself in the back of a university lecture hall as Frankenstein snooped in their underground library. Students sitting at their cramped desks took only vague notice of him, far too concerned with their computers and their notebooks and their upcoming exams.

Physics 133 was the class, and the wrinkled, balding, glasses wearing professor lectured and scribbled on chalkboard after chalkboard. “As you all likely know,” he said. “Black holes are extremely dense regions of matter. All of that, squeezed into such a tiny space exhibits a gravitational acceleration so strong that not even light can escape. Those computer generated images of black holes that you see with the ring of light around it—the light is from the black hole’s accretion; we cannot directly observe a black hole; we can only observe what it draws in. To an observer, objects nearing the event horizon appear to slow such that it takes an infinite amount of time to reach it. This phenomenon is known as gravitational time dilation.”

* * *

Ragar had a fascinating practice: prayer.

Desperate, he huffed and asked Frankenstein or whatever it was that possessed his body, “Why do you do this?”

His head tilted, and his face looked very amused.  _ “...That question is as naive as asking the universe why it exists,”  _ They rasped.  _ “ _ ... _ and then asking it why it will end...” _

His hand again stretched to the sky.

“Ragar! Get back!” M-21 yelled.

Raizel raised his red shield again, and Ragar appeared next to him as the black sky came crashing down and shattered again and again.

“We can’t move when he does that,” M-21 said. “It just—covers everything.”

Then, Raizel had an idea. Space tore apart around them and there were holes punched into the very air that swirled as it sucked matter inward. He dropped his forcefield and instead concentrated on those summoned spacetime anomalies. Raizel was precise; the gravity of his own black holes only drawing in Frankenstein’s projectiles as they fell from the sky. Instead of slamming straight down upon them, they curled and curved into Raizel’s pockets of space. “We should be able to move now.”

“You are wise, Sir Raizel,” Ragar said.

Raizel huffed with the effort of maintaining the black holes, but he nodded his encouraging acknowledgment.

It was not a moment later that Frankenstein himself brought the spear down upon them, crushing the ground as they leaped out of the way in all directions. 

“Perhaps we should just try tiring him out, and he will return to himself eventually,” Takeo suggested both hopefully and naively.

Ragar wanted to believe him, but as he looked forward to that dark, amorphous form and flickering candle flame hair, he knew it was not so simple.

_ Frankenstein, please,  _ he tried without much expectation.

But there was a response, a brief one, only a drop of water in the ocean but still a drop. Frankenstein, in his soul and in the weapons in his hands, flared and acknowledged him, even if only faintly, and this gave Ragar hope. He had made promises, and he would not break them.

Ragar disappeared again and suddenly reappeared so very close to him, and by some miracle—and that miracle was Frankenstein—he cut into him, blade to body. At last, his blood spilled, and not a moment later, Raizel was right there next to him, extending a hand to reach towards that blood. Blood on his fingertip, Raizel raised it to his lips.

_ “Frankenstein, awaken.” _

Raizel’s powers flooded and enveloped the air, cascading red.

Frankenstein flared, both darker and brighter.

“What…”

_ “Oh.”  _ The smile on his face chilled.  _ “We have never been more awake.” _

Ragar was shoved back in a shockwave, but Raizel was caught and taken in a blink into the air. With a thunderous boom, he was slammed into the ground, his wings extended upwards like a fallen and broken bird. Far reaching darkness in the form of tendrils sailed down at him. They drove into a hastily summoned force field. Raizel was still on his back, having not the time to even get up as he extended his arms to hold the barrier. Frankenstein continued to crush and crush, and that shield wavered and cracked.

“Frankenstein! What the fuck!” M-21 was leaping into the air, arms covered in fur and claws. He slashed, but before he could land, he was slammed into the ground with bone breaking force.

“We must get him off of Sir Raizel,” Seira said to the others.

Regis nodded and curled his powers around his fists.

Tao and Takeo readied their weapons.

Gunpowder and electricity leaped through the air. Seira drew her portal with her scythe, calling Death to aid her. It’s blade fell upon him.

His body drew a grand arc as it was struck down from the sky. He swept his arms out and landed on his feet lightly and gracefully, like he weighed nothing at all. There was a ring of spears around him, radiating like sun rays. They flew out in every direction.

Ragar was behind him, and he drove his daggers forward with silent and urgent plea. His blade was stopped short of his chest, caught by darkened hands that held an abstract sort of beauty.  _ “You are...far too slow…” _

The temperature plummeted. Under them, the ground was awash with darkness, pitch black like everything had suddenly flipped and they were standing on the blank night sky.

From that dark ground, crystal-like and frozen electric spears drove upwards towards all of them at once.

“Ragar!” someone screamed.

The others had leapt out of the way, but Ragar was caught, held still and slow in Frankenstein’s horizon. He was speared right through.

Blood and blood and broken flesh and broken bone and broken soul, that was sacrifice. Ragar was raised at the end of numerous spears staking his body. His blood flowed generously over that piercing darkness. He dropped his daggers and closed his eyes.

* * *

He was standing nowhere and everywhere at once. It was dark, but in the distance a figure glowed blindingly. Slowly, he approached.

His skin was blazing white, embodying every color in the visible spectrum. His hair, always in gentle waves, was fluttering and plasmic. Frankenstein was gazing into the far distance, wordless.

Ragar stood next to him and looked into that same distance. It was dark and obscure to him. “What do you see?” he asked, perhaps a little naively, but it felt right to ask.

Frankenstein remained silent for a while, only watching with wide and tender eyes.  _ “Everything…” _ he finally whispered, his voice coming from all directions.

The space shifted. They were standing in an ancient village by a rushing river. A small girl ran up her father, knocking the fishing pole out of his hand, but he smiled at her all the same.

They were in the forest. A man shot an arrow at a deer and gratefully sank his knife into it. He would use the meat, the fur, the bones, nothing wasted.

The plains. A woman, her hair wavy and bright red, cheerfully greeted a man crisscrossed in scars—a werewolf. She kissed him on the cheek. Her belly was round with child.

Frankenstein saw and knew and understood the souls within Dark Spear. He marveled at their wondrous and numerous lives; he marveled at the world.

Ragar did not understand Dark Spear and why they ultimately sought to swallow all that crossed their path, but he understood Frankenstein, and he understood Frankenstein loved the world. He embraced Dark Spear with that love, and when he extended their powers across the landscape, it was with the desire to hold the world in his palms and marvel and wonder at it. What Frankenstein saw in that darkness was the highest beauty: calamity, unified.

He risked dying again and again because life was what he worshipped. It was seduction to him.

“Isn’t it…wonderful?” Frankenstein was watching something far beyond himself; it was cosmic. He stepped forward, wanting to fall into it.

Ragar reached out and held onto his wrist.

* * *

Takeo retrieved Ragar’s bleeding and heavily torn body and quickly brought it to what he hoped was outside the widening range of battle. That he still had a body at all meant that he was still alive, which was a promising start, but he did not know if Ragar would actually stay alive. He looked in peaceful slumber, despite his wounds.

Takeo kept watch over him.

The sky shifted red above them as Raizel’s vast powers expanded. The ground rumbled and roared, and there was a distant surrealism to it.

Frankenstein’s form rose again into the air, tireless and magical. He and Raizel crashed and sparked into each other. There were arcs in the sky from it. Each collision so bright and explosive, Takeo wondered if this was how new universes were made.

* * *

“Frankenstein,” Ragar called gently. He pulled him back, but Frankenstein did not look at him; he was captivated by that expanse of darkness Ragar’s eyes could not see past. Dark Spear did not reveal their beauty to outsiders. Ragar took a nonexistent breath. “Over eight centuries ago, in battle, you told me you loved me. Are you to be believed, Frankenstein?”

Frankenstein fell very still. His glow rose and fell softly like breath.

“How can you love if you lose yourself now? You will cease to exist.” Ragar pulled down his mask and smiled genuinely, sadly, hopefully. “We are waiting for you. Those you love and those who love you back, we are waiting for your return. Come back to us, Frankenstein.”

He was angelic, soft, omnipresent. “Ragar…”

* * *

Solar flares lit up Raizel’s eyes. He rose high and mustered himself, pouring powers into the sky. It took on the shape of his fiery phoenix.

* * *

“...Thank you…” Frankenstein smiled heartbreakingly.

Ragar loved hearing that, each and every time.

* * *

That heavenly bird collided into Frankenstein’s darkness, and finally, at last, it was snuffed out.

Frankenstein plummeted from the sky.

Raizel reached forward and caught him. He fell to his knees onto the torn up dirt, clutching that body, warm and breathing, close to him. He held him tighter and sighed, bending down. Their foreheads touched.

Ragar, supported by Takeo, appeared in front of him, and he looked up. “I spoke to him…” Ragar said, lowering a reverent gaze to Frankenstein’s tender sleeping face.

Raizel smiled gently and a little sadly. “I know…” With a breath, he stood up, carrying Frankenstein is his arms. “We are going home,” he said, looking into the distance.

* * *

The polished lab floors reflected the white lights. In the tank was Frankenstein, body bare and a mask over his face. He slumbered.

They were watching him. It was a bizarre sight to see him like this when he had always been the one to stand strong and treat the ill and injured. He generously took people under his roof and generously protected them, at whatever cost.

“How long will he be…” Regis didn’t complete his question, like it was too difficult to utter.

Tao sighed. “I don’t know. It could be…a while.” He looked down at the floor, smiling sheepishly and sadly. “Well, I guess that means we’ll have to keep the house extra clean. Don’t want the Boss to wake up all grumpy; he might cut our pay!” He attempted a laugh, but it fell a little short.

M-21 was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and bandaged. “Raizel, do you know when he’ll wake up?”

Raizel gazed upward at Frankenstein’s face. His silence told them that he did not know. They all fell into somber silence. “He is dreaming,” Raizel softly and suddenly said.

“About what?” Takeo asked before he could think about the absurdity of the question, but then, it really wasn’t all that absurd.

Ragar tugged at his mask. He watched Frankenstein and swore all over again that he would remain by his side. “About us,” he answered.

_ The sea and the sky opened wide, and the white sails of boats drifted over the water in the distance. A breeze softly kissed their hair as they walked the path between the sea and the grass. _

_ “M-21, if you lose, you get to wear this cute headband I bought for you!” Tao twirled the said object around his finger. In his other hand was a badminton racket. _

_ “You can put those dog ears on my dead body.” _

_ “But Takeo even chipped in!” _

_ “What? You too?” _

_ Takeo laughed nervously. _

_ Regis jumped into the fray as well. “M-21, you are complaining about a generous gift?” _

_ Seira watched quietly from the sidelines. _

_ Frankenstein finished the last knot tying the ring of daisies together. Gently and with both hands, he placed the crown of flowers on Raizel’s head. _

_ Ragar and Raizel stopped in the middle of the path and turned around. _

_ Frankenstein coyly coughed into his fist. Then he bowed low. “My Lord,” he said with dramatic emphasis. “How generous of you to grace your humble servant with such magnitude of regal elegance this fine afternoon.” He broke into laughter, looking up. _

_ Raizel blushed and smiled down at him. He wore the flower crown the entire time. _

_ Frankenstein eventually found the shade of a tree to sit under, and he let his eyes slip closed. When he next opened them, flowers fell from his head. He was covered in them, in a multitude of colors. There were rows and rows of them, strung across his neck and shoulders, his body, on his lap. _

_ Ragar was napping, head rested against Frankenstein’s thigh. He had a daisy in his hand. _

_ Raizel was leaning against the tree and Frankenstein’s shoulder, hair still decorated with petals. _

_ Frankenstein smiled at them, warmed with their regard for him. He leaned back and closed his eyes, safe. He slept for a very, very long time. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this comes to an end. The next chapter will be an epilogue.


	10. Epilogue

_ Unknown location, unknown time. _

“Your music’s trash, bro.”

“What are you talking about? This is a classic.”

Frankenstein opened his eyes to find the world behind metal and glass. His arms were tightly bound to his sides and his body brushed against the snug pod enclosing him.

“Not even my grandpa’s grandpa listens to this, and my grandpa’s like two hundred years old.”

He could feel the rumble of the road. They were moving. Looking around, the truck struck him as being extremely armored, and the various screens and radars in his peripheral vision suggested he was in the possession of someone with money and might—an organization, and not a civilian one.

Frankenstein dissolved the binds on his limbs. He pressed his hand to the glass and shattered it, sitting up.

“Hey, did you hear that?”

“What, your trash music?”

“No, glass. Go check on the cargo.”

A sigh. “Fine—”

Dark electricity crushed the consciousness out of the two men. Frankenstein, finding himself rather naked, took the beige uniform of the larger one before kicking both of the strangers out of the door. The clothing was drab and fit a little loosely on him, but it sufficed. He pulled his newly acquired cap snuggly on his head and got in the driver’s seat.

The navigation system was unlike anything he had ever seen before: a three dimensional holographic map projected across the dashboard. The terrain was gridded and marked with various points, but they were driving on dirt and red sand; there were no roads and hardly any landmarks to discern one point from another. Frankenstein wondered just how long he had been asleep. Had the world ended during his slumber and all that was left was red dessert?

He drove on, following the navigation to see where it would lead him.

Buildings, large white domes crisscrossed with shining metal beams, eventually rose above the horizon. As he approached, the gates opened for him, seeming to automatically detect and recognize the truck. Someone in a similar uniform greeted him and knocked on his window as he entered the front plaza.

Thankfully, the mechanism used to roll down the window was a familiar one.

The inspector was clearly not human, but they didn’t look any stranger than Union encounters he had had in the past. Four pitch black eyes set in a face rough and mottled like earth stared at him, unreadable.

Frankenstein smiled.

“Cargo?” they asked.

“Uh, the pod. I’ve brought the pod.”

“We have many pods; you will have to be more specific.”

“The pod...with the guy—the Frankenstein.”

Those eyes blinked at him. Then, they leaned in. “You were supposed to enter entrance A3. Do you know what would be the consequences of losing _ him _?”

Frankenstein scratched his cheek. “Haha…Forgive me, I’m new.”

“Why in the hell would they assign a newbie for something like this?” Clear third eyelids swiped over their eyes from the side.

Frankenstein shrugged. “Beats me.”

“What? Why would I beat you? Is that a human thing? To beat each other in greeting? How barbaric.” They waved a hand, dismissing him. “Quickly, just enter and hand the truck over to a supervisor. They’ll be expecting it and will know what to do.”

Frankenstein nodded.

Inside was expansive and pleasantly air conditioned. Frankenstein slammed the truck door behind him and quickly walked away before anyone could realize that the pod was shattered and empty. Looking up, walkways crisscrossed each other above him on many levels, and light poured in from the panels of glass that made up the roof of the dome. He decided to do some scouting.

Eventually, he came across a computer lab. The monitors were white, paper thin, all screen, and mounted on rotating disks. The actual computer part was almost as thin as the monitor and rested under the stand. Booting it up, it asked for a scan of an id card. Frankenstein checked the pockets. Thankfully, the man carried one on him. A rectangle appeared on screen, prompting the user to place the card on the glass. A little strange, Frankenstein thought; he wondered how it worked, but he obeyed and was granted access.

The first thing he did was check the date.

09-09-2808.

Frankenstein stepped back. He stared for a long while, doing nothing, saying nothing. He swallowed, feeling a little sick but took a breath and made himself alive again, getting the shakiness out of his hands.

Checking for location on the computer was futile. It seemed barred from any sort of location services.

Frankenstein clicked his tongue and left the lab.

Someone bumped into him in the doorway, a mouse-like girl in a tight fitting blue suit with clean lines cutting across and vertically. “Oh, excuse me she said,” looking up at him. Then, she stared at his face hard and slightly squinted. “You’re…”

“I’m new, I’m new,” Frankenstein quickly finished for her. He laughed in a perfectly friendly manner. “Actually, I’m a little lost, can you tell me where entrance A3 is?”

“Oh, it’s on the other side. Take the bridge across and then the elevators near room 304 down to the ground floor. That would be the fastest route.”

Frankenstein thanked her and they both scurried away.

He found the entrance and with it a few vehicles coming and going. One of them would do, he thought.

Like the inspector he had encountered, he approached an armored truck in plain sight with the utmost friendliness and knocked on the window. It rolled down for him.

“Cargo?” Frankenstein asked, pulling down his hat a little over his face.

“Yeah, the 164 babies.”

Frankenstein had no idea what that meant. “Great. Get out. I’ll take it from here.”

The driver, another nonhuman organism like the one he previously encountered blinked with their transparent eyelids at him and looked confused for a moment before simply shrugging and stepping out of the vehicle.

Frankenstein hopped inside and shut and locked the door.

Kicking up a waterfall of red sand, Frankenstein wrenched the truck into a sharp U-turn and sped away out of the gates.

“Hey! Hey! Someone get him!”

Several vehicles followed him in hot pursuit.

One hand on the wheel and one hand extended to the navigation computer, Frankenstein poked and prodded and swiped through maps and menus until he could arrive at his location. The desolate landscape of sand and dirt and rocks and more of the same spread out before him, revealing nothing about where he was or where he should go. Frankenstein knew Earth; few landscapes were new to him. He knew ocean from land and North from South and East from West. He had travelled the globe many times and had always, without fail, been able to find his way. But this wasn’t Earth.

He was on Mars.

_ What the fuck? _he thought.

Sand was kicking up, picking up into the air, and it suddenly got very, very dusty: a sandstorm. He was blinded. Only the navigation clued him in on what direction he was heading.

There were thunderous bangs against the body of the vehicle. He was being shot at and could only press forward as fast as his wheels would turn and hope to lose them in the rising and swirling red storm. Using his powers now would only reveal to them who he was, and he wasn’t sure if that was wise.

Then, there were bright lights ripping through the sand. Bursts and beams coming from all directions. One tore through the armor in the back. One sizzled against the ends of his hair. He could not leave the navigation in such an obscuring storm but neither could he sit on a slow moving truck only to be shot at.

He slammed the brakes and rolled out of the door. Then he took to the air. His powers cleared the sand in a radius around him, and he crackled with familiar darkness. Beams continued to cross the space from objects hidden behind the storm, but Frankenstein saw the trucks well enough to crush them with his immense force.

A blazing hot shot from the air grazed his shoulder, and he twirled back to send his own piercing regard in that direction. 

A voice blared over a speaker. “Boss! It’s Boss! M-21 stop freaking shooting! Boss! It’s us!”

Two sleek black angular aircraft slid into the clearing, M-21 in one, Tao and Takeo in the other. M-21’s scarred lip lifted into a smirk, Takeo smiled, Tao beamed.

“Boss! Jump in! M-21 has a spare seat.”

Frankenstein leaped. The glass of the craft pulled back, and he slid into the seat next to M-21. The glass closed.

M-21 chuckled. “Good to see you.”

Frankenstein was a little bewildered but infinitely glad. “Good...to see you too.” He let out a breath.

“Let’s get out of here before they shoot us out of the sky.” The aircraft hummed to life, and they whizzed away.

The mothership hung in the quiet stillness of space. Its belly opened for them and the two fighter craft flew inside and docked in their respective slots, mechanical arms craning and coming down to hold them in place.

Frankenstein stepped out and looked around with wide, wonder filled eyes. He felt so very young again and everything was suddenly new and strange, as if he had been reborn.

“It has been a while, Frankenstein.”

He startled and turned around. “Ragar…”

Ragar smiled behind the mask he still wore even now along with a black leather jacket. “Welcome back.”

Frankenstein smiled as well. Bonds flickered to life, warm and constant.

There was a distant thudding.

“We’re being attacked.” Takeo looked at M-21, and they nodded at each other and quickly jumped back into the fighter craft and took off with robotic whirrs.

Someone stepped from the darkened hallway and into the bright hangar. Raizel was sleekly dressed in a black suit accented only with a bright, hot pink. His hair was brushed back, some of it tucked behind his ear. In both hands, dark matte gray guns that seemed a little too large to be carried by one hand. On the barrel was the number 164 in glossy black.

“Master…” Frankenstein uttered, dumbfounded and dumbstruck.

“Frankenstein…” Raizel smiled sweetly and gently, and Frankenstein wondered if such a thing could kill him by making his heart stop.

Then, like a madman, Raizel opened the emergency hatch and leapt out into the uncaring, vast space, guns by his side.

Frankenstein was only stopped by Ragar placing a hand on his shoulder.

They looked at each other.

Ragar tugged at his mask. “We will take care of this, Frankenstein.”

He was overcome with the renewed wonder of a new world. He smiled and laughed a little. “Thank you, Ragar,” Frankenstein said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song plays over the end credits:  
https://youtu.be/yt6B7X1FDNU  
And a new adventure starts.


	11. Bonus: A short comic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frankenstein dreaming from chapter 9.


End file.
